Veni, Vidi, Vici: The 57th Hunger Games
by DaughterOfTigris
Summary: Thousands of years ago, a legendary figure said the famous words, "Veni, vidi, vici," after his victory. Now, it is time for one tribute to come, see, and conquer the others after their own victory. Allow the fifty-seventh Hunger Games to begin!
1. Chapter 1 — Prologue

_"You look at risk and try to estimate its weight; however, I have a scale."_

* * *

 **Felix Junius, 39**

 **Head Gamemaker**

 _BOOM._

Cranola from Eleven stood there, wide-eyed and scared, staring down the massive queen. She had already survived for twenty-one days, and her biggest competitor had just died. Now, she only had to face one more person—the weak-looking boy from Six.

Her legs trembled in fear as she advanced upon the boy, who had finished the challenge mere minutes before her, minutes that seemed like an eternity. The apprehension was clear on her face. _How strong is this boy, to survive twenty-one days of fighting and of terror?_

She was about to find out. They stared each other down, crude knives in hand. Six was the first to move, raising the shiv to throw. His stance was off, and Felix saw that Cranola knew it as well. She easily sidestepped and threw her own, striking Six straight in the chest and running away.

Hours later, a boom sounded, and it never failed to raise Felix's heart rate every time. Who was it, Cranola, dead via mutts, or the Six boy, bled out?

Trumpets sounded for the victorious being.

"Congratulations to the victor of the fifty-sixth Hunger Games, Cranola Birch from District Eleven!"

The replay went over Felix's holographic screen. It was the sixteenth time he watched it, and he got that warm fuzzy feeling every time at the end, after the suspense had cleared. The feeling of success.

She was out of the arena, safe and sound. She was the _Victor_ , and his massive bets, held under a fake name, would be safe. And no one had noticed, not even the President, who was known to have a knack for such observing the tiny details and putting them together. He was so sure that President Regalus had realized what he was doing when the finale between the final three was a human game of chess, one of strategy and definitely not one that benefited the favorite—Mason Tus from District Two.

And Cranola had beaten the physically disadvantaged Miketon Blanks, of District Six, for the title of Victor. Sighing in relaxation, finally relieved from all the stress that came from the risks of gambling, he reclined his leather chair back and fell asleep gracelessly, body wore down with fatigue.

Therefore, though he would have startled, activating, from the base of his recliner, the automatic safe and grabbed his gun as the intruder slipped inside his room, he didn't; merely grumbling something incoherent.

But through the depths of the murky haze of sleep, Felix was punctured by a shard, interrupting the peaceful utopia of calm he had created for himself.

"Go away..." he murmured.

"Felix, there is a very important issue that we absolutely need to address," came the response. The voice sounded familiar, almost, and he recognized that, even surrounded by his clouds of drowsiness. It almost sounded like the voice secondary to his own, the one that breathed down his neck everyday during the time of the Hunger Games and months before as well, dry, low, and darkly amused. The one he feared and...

With a jolt, he woke up, certain it was a dream, a nightmare. But President Regalus stood before him, silvery revolver in one hand, taser in the other. The same warm fuzzy feeling overcame him, but it was now one of fear, not happiness. He froze—Felix had always imagined this moment, staring down the President, but he now realized that his imaginary scene was much different than the real thing.

Trying to reflexively bluff his way out of the situation, he asked, with his casual air, still blinking away the lingering strands of sleep, "Good afternoon, how are you today?" His body felt heavy, too heavy, to even bend down to reach his gun; this was his only chance, and he had to execute it well.

But President Regalus laughed, one of that familiar cold amusement that always revolved around him, and Felix felt another spike of fear. Internally, he kicked himself for taking the large risk, but though it was stupid, he knew he couldn't stop, anyway.

"Perhaps the mention of gambling would spark a few brain cells?"

He knew. Felix still wasn't sure why this surprised him this much—to make a clean getaway from basically sabotaging the President was unheard of, ever. But still, his family, his wife and two daughters, depended on him. And they had told him, weeks before, to quit gambling, as he had laughed and said that they wouldn't get any money, otherwise. Waves of guilt washed over him as President Regalus raised his gun.

"I'll make it quick. You have no necessary information relevant to me."

 _That was a blessing, at least,_ he thought as the bullet entered his chest, piercing heart immediately.

It was like falling asleep, but this time, he fell deeper into the chasm. And never climbed out.

* * *

 **A/N: Hey everyone, Tigress here, and I'm starting my first SYOT. The prologue's short because, well, it's a prologue—I'll have some more out soon as well.**

 **Through this SYOT, I really hope to grow as a writer and I can only do that if people submit! I won't be taking reservations, sorry, but I will be giving you until May 21st, 8:00 AM, Pacific Time. Please, no submissions via review; those will be deleted, as I'm pretty sure that they're against the rules.**

 **Also, please elaborate and be detailed. Give me a full sense of their character! More rules/the FAQ and the form will be on my profile. I get that I'm being sorta strict about this, but I really want to finish this, and I can only do that if you follow them :)**

 **More prologues to come, along with the arena reveal.**

 **EDIT: Apparently, it's against the fanfiction rules to have song lyrics. So to compensate, I'll just make up some sort of quote for each person that takes the place of what a song lyric is supposed to do—give the audience a taste of the character. But it's my own, so I'm allowed to use it, and insert a "representative song" section for each character at the end.**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	2. Chapter 2 — Prologue

"Everyone fears darkness. Me? I crawled from the deepest folds, relishing every moment."

* * *

 **Wester Regalus, 63**

 **President of Panem**

Sifting through the multiple essays and applications, Wester's eyes skimmed past the lines and lines of neat words. He didn't give a crap about the filled in forms—after all, the Head Gamemaker position was to be assigned by he himself. Forms and applications would give the hopefuls too much power, even if it were fleeting and false. Wester already had his final two choices: Aurelius Dens and Rya Lupus. The former was a loyal-to-the-end-but-naive person, unable to betray... or fully reach the full potential of Head Gamemaker, while the latter was a huge history buff, but a woman.

Sure, women were important and all, but they just didn't hold high positions with even a little bit of power, lest the public, clinging on to the tiniest shards of gossip, believe that there was something going on between the two. Yet after Junius was rigging the games, perhaps he ought to assign the harsher to create the arena. And what was more harsh than the history of the nation of Panem, before it was Panem? They would pass it off as a myth, of course—citizens could definitely not know of other civilizations and the wealth they lived in, as it might have led to more rebellions and modified strategy of the rebels in the past.

Straightening his already impeccable tuxedo and bow tie, President Regalus rang for an Avox to call Rya in.

When a crisp knock at the door sounded, he assumed it was the Avox with the woman, but it was only her alone, standing in a business skirt and blazer.

 _Did she think it was brave of her, to come alone and without a witness? Or is she just naive and doesn't know what I do with people like her?_ he thought. Wester had been the original one spreading the rumors—the better to strike fear into the residents of the districts' hearts—but legitimately didn't care for the "pleasures of life," so to speak.

He introduced himself first. Though normal protocol was for the guest to acknowledge the host upon entering, Wester felt like making his name known before the other showed more power, and so he went with that strategy.

"Good afternoon. I am President Regalus." The two already knew each other, so this was a mere berating statement to the woman, showing that he thought nothing of her. Higher-ups like him needn't dabble in such lower-Capitolite business.

Rya accepted his hand for a shake. She shook firmly and her grip was hard, so Wester responded with his full strength, crushing her delicate hand in his own, expecting a scowl or other negative expression on her face. But she just smiled innocently and brightly, and Wester felt like he had made a mistake.

"I'm Rya Lupus. Nice to meet you."

"A pleasure," he replied. "I have called you in today because I am assigning you to the recently vacated Head Gamemaker position. Your arena idea, plan, and layout are due a month from today, during the annual meeting. Dismissed."

He jerked his head towards the door after seconds passed and she didn't respond.

"Dismissed," he stated again, louder than before.

At last, Rya replied, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Mister President, I have the arena already planned out, Sir."

Weater's eyebrows knit themselves together as he furrowed them. "Did I not make it clear: the meeting is precisely a month from now. You are dismissed now, or I will have an Avox escort you out."

She stood her ground. "A month from now, my crew—" Wester sighed. _Her_ crew?

"They're not 'your' crew," he mocked. "Those Gamemakers are mine."

"Possessive much?" she muttered under her breath as the President glared at her. "Apologies, Mister President. It's just that this arena idea is large and will take months to create. Allow me to present it to you now."

He gestured a yes, expressing his discontent by staying silent and unmoving. But as she continued with her arena idea, his original plan to stay impassive and unimpressed had to be abandoned for the slightly easier plan of not showing his emotions.

"Ancient Rome, in all its glory, was both a terrible and amazing place," she began. "Terrible, due to its many faults, including structural ones, and amazing for its military prowess and architectural feats.

"The arena idea for the fifty-seventh Hunger Games is a replica of how Ancient Rome was at its peak. Due to the restraints of arena size, I would only be able to include choice monuments. They include, the Colosseum, for its gladiatorial battles which the Hunger Games are like, in a way; the aqueduct system, which will allow tributes to have water... with a price; and," she hesitated before plowing on, "the Roman Forum, which we will station real Avoxes in."

"That's never been done before. We just _cannot_ have Avoxes in an arena."

"And why can't we?" she challenged.

"I am the President, Rya." He purposely used her first name—it was how people in the Capitol referred to children while doing business, and Rya was a young woman, around the age of twenty-five. "And whatever I say, goes. I run the entire country, so I run you."

"Mister President," Rya began, "I feel like the adding of Avoxes is vital to this arena. In Ancient Rome—"

"Stop your going about Ancient Rome. I'm not a young and untried person," he hinted, "so I know our history and which things are likely to work, and which things are likely to fail."

Rya's head tilted to one side. A look of understanding crossed over her face. "Ah, so you think that Avoxes will be too unpredictable and uncontrollable. You think that I'm _manipulating_ you."

Wester internally frowned, focusing his outside expression on staying stoic and blank. Was he really that easy to read? Years of ruling Panem with an iron fist had made him hard and insusceptible to people like her. He was losing his touch.

He responded, "No. You haven't added any explanation of why the Avoxes would add anything to the arena."

"And you haven't added any explanation of why the Avoxes would not add anything to the arena."

Finally, something that he could call her out on and save face. "Rya, you're getting this all wrong. Young people," he began, almost wanting to add on 'like you,' "often make that mistake. Because you are the one giving the proposal, you must defend your own idea, not attack my own—not that you could ever touch it, of course."

"Fine, then." Her feelings were as clear as day on her face, and for the second time, Wester felt like he had made a mistake. Head Gamemakers were supposed to cower under him, not defend their own ideas and challenge his superiority and opinions. "The Avoxes would be stationed in the Forum, as shop owners. They would be instructed a basic trading system. They would also deliver sponsor gifts to tributes, but only if they're in the Forum or if they're critically wounded and unable to move. This would add a twist in sponsoring and the Victor would truly deserve to be Victor; it wouldn't be someone who had spent their time hiding and getting sponsor gifts."

She had hit the spot there. After last year's disastrous Hunger Games, with Cranola from Eleven winning, six years after Haymitch from Twelve won, the Victor system needed to be changed. But the one thing Wester hated the most was giving in. So stubbornly, he replied, "So be it. But the Capitol citizens need to like it."

"I'll have the arena, blueprints, and mutt designs delivered tomorrow. Believe me, you'll love them." She left.

He didn't want to "believe her," as she simply put it. Any mess-ups, anything that didn't succeed, would be blamed on him, or at least, he would get the fallout from it. Wester was under a lot of pressure. So the only thing left to do would be to harden, to turn stronger. Like a diamond. And to bring down the others with him if he fell.

* * *

 **A/N: And that concludes Prologue #2. I've already gotten a lot of amazing submissions, so I'd like to thank you all for that, and for all the reviews. Constructive criticism is something I'm always grateful for. :) I also love writing in 3rd person past, so I think I'm going to continue doing that throughout the entire story.**

 **So... what do you all think of the arena? I have so much stuff for the arena planned that's not even revealed yet, and I don't plan to review it until the tributes find out. Also... I have the updating schedule for prologues on my profile, along with the in-progress tribute list there. Next chapter, we're going to get more information about the arena and just the Head Gamemaker in general. I still need more tributes, so I hope you all will join! :D**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	3. Chapter 3 — Prologue

"Thinking things through delays the outcome. And I'd hate for anything to delay."

* * *

 **Rya Lupus, 24**

 **Head Gamemaker**

She had, at last, convinced the President. Sure, this may not have been a good thing, evident via former Head Gamemaker Felix Junius being dead, most likely killed by him, but her Ancient Rome plan had just passed and she was ecstatic.

Rya smiled at the thought for what seemed like the thousandth time. She just couldn't stop—her childhood dreams were, at last, becoming reality. But she had to remain professional, or at least appear to be so. Despite it being the most exciting moment ever in her lifetime, she couldn't even share it with anyone. The rules were absolutely absurd and she had just picked up the phone to tell her brother the news when she stopped.

All phone lines were likely to be monitored in the Capitol, and she had already seen—well, not seen, more like heard—what happened to Felix. She wasn't willing to take this big a risk for such a small guilty pleasure. Yet still, ever since she was little, Rya sucked at keeping secrets. No matter how much the other kids cried because she spilled their own details they had trusted Rya with—Lorraine's being homosexual and Agnus for not conforming to the gender they were assigned at birth, to name a few—she just couldn't resist the euphoria of knowing something others didn't, and had to share it with someone, so they would know she knew.

Perhaps it went with not fitting in with the general crowd at school, always in the background, waiting to be noticed, making Rya grow desperate. She was rejected in the hallways as the loner, as that girl who was obsessed with history, of all things. The tryhard. The wannabe.

She laughed bitterly. If only her old schoolmates could see her now—not even twenty-five, and working for the President on the Hunger Games. What prestige! What acknowledgement and glory!

That's all they would see—the fame of the job. Not the countless hours she had worked herself towards this goal, and not the countless hours she had put in towards designing the arena and actually getting the job done. Wiping the scowl from her face, she straightened and walked over to the holographic projector on her glass table.

Sitting down, Rya took out a small disc-like object with protruding edges—her fidget spinner. Occasionally—more like most of the time—she had the attention span of a child, often having to resort to twirling a pencil or other childish maneuvers. Sure, these "fidget spinners" were toys, but it wasn't like she was going to take them out of her room, and they looked and felt cooler than a plain pencil.

Spinning it in her left hand, she focused her attention on the screen after turning the holographic projector on. Her blueprints appeared mid-air and she spun the scene around to show the arena layout. Satisfied with the layout and design, she set to work designating Avoxes as vendors, and designing their outfits.

It was all so incredibly last-minute—she had told him that the details would be ready by today, and she only had a few more hours until six o' clock, most likely the time he was going to call her in. The more she worried over the time, though, the more she thought that President Regalus would most likely call her in even earlier, just to teach her a lesson for talking back to him.

Her impulsivity had never stopped, despite the many trips to counselors and constant reassurances from them that it would just get better after middle school, along with her procrastination, a leftover result from grade school and college. And she still was quick to anger, words leaving her mouth the second she wanted to reply.

The conversation with President Regalus the day before had kept her up all night and made her insomnia worse. It was terrible—she just couldn't sleep and instead had to start refining the arena, in a daze. Even now, she could barely remember what she was working on and what she changed.

Rya reminded herself that it was her goal, and that she had _wanted_ this job, and that if she wanted to keep it, along with not die, that she had to work. So work she did, taking out all her burdens on the fidget spinner while focusing, stress-free, on the costumes. The Ancient Romans wore togas, which she could easily replicate without too much work. In the legitimate Hunger Games, they were to be made out of white wool, but for now, as a rough draft, a bed sheet would have to do. Still, she hated being so unprofessional in front of a President.

 _Perhaps it'll make him believe that I'm a mere "foolish young lady,"_ she thought. _And as for yesterday's conversation, he may not take it seriously and deem me as not a threat. I should probably model the toga just to make sure that it works for now, though._

Rya stopped the spinner in the excitement of actually wearing what people in the past might have worn, and got out a thick and decrepit book out of her shelf, which was straining to hold the weight of countless others like that one, almost dropping it. It read _ROMA_ on the cover. Flipping open the pages to the index, she found the T-section and followed the alphabet to "toga." The pages were glossy and hard to flip, so reluctantly, she licked the tip of her fingers and turned the pages until the specified page. She was in luck; there was a reference picture of a normal Ancient Roman toga.

The woman wrapped the bed sheet around her bodice and her shoulder until it looked something like the picture to model for size and the logistics of how the toga fit around an Avox's body. It would have to do for now, and she began to sit down until she realized the flaw—it was too tightly wound, and she couldn't bend over. Rya made a mental note to not wind the toga too tightly in the actual games.

And of course, her luck had already diminished and it just _had_ to be the time when someone knocked. She was still wearing her toga, and a sheaf of panic spread through her body. _If I pretend I'm in the restroom, I might have a minute or so to change..._

As Rya did her best to run to the restroom, she heard the door opening, then closing. _Oh, shoot._

She tried to play it cool, but still took her anger and frustration on the President. "That was quite rude. Courtesy dictates that one should only enter not directly after a knock, but until _after_ the hostess has accepted and has invited them in," she said pointedly. "Mister Pr— Ahhh."

One look over her shoulder told her that this was not the President. He had sent an _Avox_ to come and get her. She had assumed that they would have been meeting in her room. After all, it was only expected, as she was the one with the holographic projector.

But the Avox impatiently beckoned her to come with him, and instead of following, which would only have shown that she was a compliant person, she led the way. There was one moment where she almost took the wrong turn, but sensing that she was about to make a mistake—she figured—the Avox had steered her deliberately away from that corridor and into another.

Rya struggled to walk in her makeshift toga, especially with her stiletto heels. _I bet Regalus'll laugh when he sees me_ , she thought with wounded pride. _Is it possible to get fired for such an act? Maybe I can play it cool?..._

Not a moment too soon after she made her decision to stay and fight it out and not run—or hobble, in her state of clothing and shoes—they arrived at the door of the President's office.

"You can leave now," she told the Avox. She would and could face President Regalus alone.

He left with a seemingly worried last glance at her.

"I'm going to be fine, don't worry."

She knocked on the door and tried to open the door as the Avox had with her own room, but found it locked.

 _Of course Regalus has a locked door so I can't barge in like the Avox._ _How utterly convenient._ She made another mental note to ask some handyman or something to put a lock on her door as well.

Footsteps came from inside the office, and Rya backed away from the locked door. Only when she saw his stern face, etched with age and experience, did she think twice about her outfit.

 _Crap._

Realizing she didn't look business-like in the least, perhaps even silly and immature, Rya's thoughts whirled. How would she escape this situation?

Acting normal would make the President suspicious—recalling back upon the day before, she had worn a blazer and business skirt. It might have also encouraged Regalus to fire her for being incompetent and too young for the job. Telling the truth would come off as irresponsible and even as blaming the President.

The more she thought about it, facing him and not noticing that she was staring blankly on the outside, the more she regretted it. Why hadn't she taken the extra minute or so to shed the toga? Her impulsivity had gotten the better of her—just like the counselors had said when she was younger.

Rya was stuck at an impasse. There was no good solution, and she had to react in seconds before the President would look down upon her and judge. So she made yet another impulse decision.

"Good afternoon. I am President Regalus. I believe we have met before." He stuck out his hand for a shake.

"Aaaaand hey, I'm Rya." Instead of taking his hand, she gave it a high-five, movements slow and lazy.

It was harder than it looked to keep a straight face that looked tipsy when Regalus' outraged and surprised facial expression was so unnatural, stretched beyond human capability.

"And this is why younger Head Gamemakers aren't reliable enough to earn their positions," he sighed after recovering himself.

Rya bristled inside, but remained her facade. It was a huge risk, but she saw no other way out of it. She pretended to sober—having little drinking experience, she did her best impression of regaining her body. "Sorry, Sir. Someone spiked my drink with something alcoholic, I suspect."

Regalus' eyes narrowed as he examined her with cold brown eyes. "Rya, I'm afraid I don't smell any of it on you."

 _Oh, frick._

How had she overlooked such a detail? _Your impulsiveness_ , the Devil's Advocate part of her brain told her. _You jumped in too quickly and look—you got caught._

With every other word Regalus spoke, Rya could feel her blood freezing in fear.

"Lying to the Capitol is a capital offense."

She could barely muster the strength to reply back, dropping the snarky tone she would have used in other circumstances, "I am part of the Capitol as well. Therefore, that argument is invalid."

"Not so fast, Rya. I could fire—or even kill—you. But as I am a pragmatic man who actually knows his stuff, I know better than to kill off a Head Gamemaker a few months before the Hunger Games. So I'm giving you this final chance.

"Show the Districts that the Capitol has no mercy for them, and you'll get mine. Make this the best games in history. Show the Ancient Romans that people in the future—the Capitol—were even harsher than them, that we have continued on their legacy, and I will let you continue on yours. Dismissed."

Shell-shocked and unable to process the information, Rya backed out of the office uncertainly, doing the best to keep her expression steady.

How the heck was she going to pull this off?

* * *

 **A/N: Prologue #3! I've gotten even more great submissions, but I still have some open slots, so keep 'em coming! Also, when I was proofreading this, I realized that I have a pun (or two) hidden inside here... They're kind of obscure—can anyone find them? ;)**

 **Hope you liked this chapter featuring Rya—the mood changes are intentional—and what do you think of her? Can she pull it off? Next chapter, we'll get to know more about the mentors and stylists, along with the tribute list reveal! Thanks for all your constructive feedback—it's something I always love.**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	4. Chapter 4 — Prologue

**Trigger Warning: Depression/grief/very very obscure hints of self-harm in the District Five Female mentor's POV. Nothing too specific, but just a head's up. Also, not-very-descriptive self-harm and slight sexual references in District 8 Female mentor's POV. Read those POVs at your own discretion, but it's still in T.**

* * *

"Why are words so often wasted?"

* * *

 **Panther Eguchi, 27**

 **Victor of the Forty-Eighth Hunger Games**

 **District 1 Male Mentor**

"Excuse me? Let me in! PANTHER—" Quite excessive pounding on his house's wooden door rattled his ears and made him grit his teeth.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Leaping nimbly over the piles of junk and unmade dishes on his couch after he got up from where he was eating, he rushed to the door, wishing for the endless noise to stop.

"I need to TELL you something IMPORTANT! So _hurry_!"

He hurried over to his door and opened it. Sure enough, it was who he expected it would be.

"Gloria, it wasn't even locked... And you know how I feel about useless noise."

She ignored the comment, wisely, and cleared her throat. "So what I direly needed to inform you of is that we're the next mentors for this new set of tributes."

He eyed the forty-year-old woman with suspicion. "And I got paired with _you_?"

"Darling, you're saying that as if it's a bad thing. You'll be with Gloria Alvi—just think of all the prestige you'll get when I bring another one home."

"First of all, your tribute relied on luck, not skill. But luck is like stupidity. It's stupid." He knew he was playing with fire here, but it didn't matter. Even if she dared confront him, she couldn't play the mental game—she was too loud and boisterous for that.

Gloria stepped up to face him. She was probably used to towering over people, even at her age, as she was almost six feet, but Panther stood an astounding six feet, five. He smirked as she just glared, testing his patience and—he figured—trying to expose his weaknesses.

 _Have fun trying,_ he thought, still cautious. Over-confidence was what made people naive and vulnerable. _That should pose a serious challenge._

"First of all, I don't see any of _your_ tributes," she mocked.

Easily brushed aside, he replied, "This is my first chance, just like you had yours." Hesitating, he added, "But unlike you, I'm not running on luck."

His mentoring partner frowned. "I came here as a friendly acquaintance and you give me _utter_ disrespect. Well, consider this competition on, because _my_ tribute will be winning this time. And she won't even let you think she won because of this luck you talk about."

It would have been over—Gloria would have forgotten in a few days, true to her character, but Panther couldn't let her get the last word. "Remember how just a few minutes ago, I told you I hated useless noise? Take that into consideration and _shut your mouth_. Nothing of great importance goes out of it anyway."

Her face turned red with either rage or embarrassment—Panther couldn't tell—but both were dangerous things.

 _Well, I better watch my back._

* * *

"It seems like only yesterday... Oh, how the times have changed."

* * *

 **Tybrus Ignis II, 52**

 **Victor of the Twenty-Third Hunger Games**

 **District 2 Male Mentor**

"So what we need to do is develop a strong inner mindset that establishes no morals whatsoever. It would be contained within our tributes to give them the optimal chance of winning the Games," Tybrus inserted his input to the collection of previous District Two Victors, and a chorus of groans filled the pack.

"Come on, Ignis, you may have experience, but the amount of kills leads in this pack. And in this case, _I_ obtain that badge." Without even glancing at the speaker, Tybrus knew who it was. The self-obsessed voice, confident and steady had been burned into his ears ever since that _boy_ had came back from the Games, hands bloody, ego boosted even higher.

He bent over, putting his elbows on his knees to give him some advice, but thought better of it, instead retaliating with, "You're so naive, Grutel, thinking that your kills actually won you the Games. Nay, it was your mentors who petitioned for sponsors while you were in the arena, too egotistical to capture the positive attention of any of the Capitolites. So please, show some appreciation for someone except yourself."

All the other older mentors nodded their heads in agreement alongside him, but only one of the younger group did—Sapentia. He had heard of her seemingly endless intelligence, and though he hadn't the privilege of mentoring her, his wife did.

As Grutel started speaking in retaliation, Sapentia raised her hand, ignoring Grutel. _I love that girl—she's my favorite out of the younger batch._

Tybrus nodded towards her and she breathed a sigh of relief, her words overcoming Grutel's and carrying much more substance. "Grutel, if you want to think your bloodshed won you the Games, and choose to ignore the countless hours of work done for you behind the scenes, so be it."

He frowned and raised an eyebrow towards her, unsure, but her expression back told him to wait for it. His own features melted into one of neutrality as he waited for her to continue on.

"However, I do believe that it's my turn to mentor. Being the most recent Victor out of us all, I have to pull my weight, see? And I have been told that I am allowed to choose my mentoring partner, is that so?"

There was no such rule or regulation, but rules were made to be broken, just like morals. "Yes, of course—I say this as the most senior mentor in-the-field."

"Thank you," she smiled at him. "Therefore, I'll choose Ignis. Case closed."

Grutel, appeared to be seething. _Ha, he likes her—isn't that funny. Next year, when we come back successful, I'll use that against him if he tries anything._

"Wow, we've gone through the entire process much faster than we usually do—thank you for your help, Papirius." He hated using the formal last names to address his fellow mentors—formality and manners were a bore and completely useless, but Tybrus used them anyway, along with his status and rank to get what he wanted. "We can talk strategy and how we're going to mentor our tributes tomorrow."

* * *

"No other woman should go through what I went through. We females should be shielded."

* * *

 **Almendra Piaz-Ormia, 34**

 **Victor of the Thirty-Ninth Hunger Games**

 **District 3 Female Mentor**

She was going to be late to the meeting. _Shoot._

Almendra ran through her house's doorframe, leaving the door open in her haste. _Oh well, no one's going to dare rob a Victor's house anyway._ There were only three more minutes left for her to cross over to the other side of the Victor's Village, according to the last time she checked the clock... exactly 150 seconds ago. The numbers whirled through her head on instinct as she calculated the distance versus time. She had to run exactly 6.6 (with the decimal repeating) feet per second to arrive on time—a near-impossible feat for her to do.

So she walked as she pondered who her mentoring partner would be. _I'm going to be late anyway, better to save my breath and energy than to rush... and the same result will still happen._

It was just like her tributes every year. It was better to save her energy than to waste it on incapable tributes. They were all the same, and they all turned out the same. Dead. All of them were malnourished, straight out of the cobalt mines—even the girls.

She held a traditional stance on females and their rights—no hard labor, and a strict schedule of working for the family on household manners and an arranged, proper marriage. However, the ones most likely to be Reaped either way were the less-privileged, the ones who hadn't any sons—so their girls had to work in the mines. Hence, they were physically strong, to a sense, but their brains were like walnuts—impossible to crack without a weapon. And that's what happened to them in the Games.

Two minutes late, she knocked on the door, not waiting for a response to enter. Sonic never kept his door locked, being the old man who still believed in honour and morals these days. Climbing up the stairs to the third floor, where all meetings concerning mentoring were held, she overheard a few of Sonic's words.

"Fiasco, may you please mentor this year's male tribute?"

 _Oh, no. Not Fiasco, please no,_ she thought. Fiasco was the absolute worst. He was, in short, a fiasco. No one knew his real name, and he certainly wasn't going to tell them—she didn't think he could—but she couldn't believe that Sonic and Los got to stay back in District Three and chill. Sonic especially. He seemed to take the fact that since he was the most senior member, he was obligated to make the decisions of who was going to mentor the male tribute himself—and he never chose himself to mentor them.

Almendra turned the knob and opened the door, walking inside and taking her designated seat in the circle, in between Fiasco and Los.

"Good afternoon, everyone. Sorry I was late. You know me and all, with my tight schedules. Hey, that reminds me of when I—"

Sonic cut her off from another one of her long stories and smiled, being the forgiving senior he was. "It's all right, Menny—"

"Don't call me that!" Ever since he had successfully brought her home as his first successful mentoring after twenty years, he treated her like a child.

"Sorry, Almendra. So, as I was saying, you're mentoring the female, as usual, with Fiasco as your partner."

She looked over at Fiasco, who sat head lolled over to the side, a black stare on his face. Almendra had watched all the Games—Fiasco's more than thrice—and could never find out how he won. Was it pure luck, or did the Gamemakers forget about him?

Either way, it wasn't in her place to ask, even though she didn't want to mentor with him. Although she loved the adrenaline that raced through her veins and pumped her up when she dared herself to do something, she would never purposely hurt another inside.

After all, she'd overcame those monsters years before. It would be unjust to force them harder upon anybody else, especially someone who looked as if he was going through them himself.

Ah, those stupid morals again. Sonic's influence was rubbing onto her.

* * *

"We all know who the greatest one here is... me!"

* * *

 **Odysseus Calamry, 18**

 **Victor of the Fifty-Fifth Hunger Games**

 **District Four Male Mentor**

"Did you know that they sang songs about me, Odysseus the Great?"

"You idiot!" his mentoring partner, Isla Lagun, replied. "Not about you, Odysseus Calamry, but about the Odysseus of Ancient Greek Literature. Like, did you _ever_ study history in District Four?"

"Excuse me, but how can you prove that? Prove that they're not singing about me!"

Isla smiled at him, instantly reminding him of a shark and he blanched inside, suddenly scared at her confidence. "I can prove that you're an absolute idiot because you don't know the first thing about debating."

 _Oh boy_ , he thought resignedly. _Once her debating side comes out, it never goes back in._

 _Just like sexuality_ , he added with a jolt, as Isla was talking about defending or attacking arguments—whatever. _And words. And like, everything in the universe—including my greatness._

 _"_ Odysseus, pay attention!"

"Who am I, to pay attention to you? You're barely as experienced as I am."

"Still more than you are, though. And far more mature."

"I bet you still crack a laugh all the time—ha, get it? Crack because, like, crack?..." he trailed off as Isla rolled her eyes.

"You know, like the drug?..."

"You know, like how I was talking about being way more mature than you? This is one of those moments."

"You still aren't as great as me," he tried back.

"Says who?"

"Me, the greatest person alive."

"Not for any longer, you won't be. If you continue on like this, you'll be committing suicide out of hopelessness and desperation when your first tribute dies in the Bloodbath."

They stared each other down, Odysseus worried he'd lose this one. He had never lost anything at all, from the day he was born, to the Hunger Games—unless his virginity counted.

As a last resort, fearful for his perfect winning record, Odysseus whipped out a stun gun. "Haha! I have the advantage! Well, I've always had it, but now it's just more obvious. Stand back!"

Isla rolled her eyes and didn't budge. Internally, Odysseus jumped at the opportunity to one-up her, but it was too obvious. A trap, perhaps? He didn't survive his Games just based off acting—nope, correction: being—the best in the twenty-four. He survived off his ability to do whatever necessary. That's what he thought, at least.

So, he squeezed the trigger, and down went Isla.

 _There wasn't a trap, after all_ , he thought happily. "Isla's too dumb for that."

A zapping sound filled the air and he was strangely aware of his own self being shocked—by the stun gun?

But how was the possible? He had survived everything the Capitol had thrown his way—the fires that killed almost all of his household, being picked as Volunteer when he was sixteen and definitely not the best at the Academy, and even winning the Hunger Games, a few impossible feats alongside many—only to be killed with a stun gun?

He had, indeed, studied Odysseus of Ancient History, and in the story, all the deities except Poseidon were on his side. He was a reincarnation of Odysseus, born to be great with all the legitimate deities on his side—and the Capitol against him.

He did not just get brought down with a stun gun. Yet he hit the floor with a _thunk!_ and looked up to see a smugly smiling Isla above him.

Oh well. At least he wasn't dead. But his pride was.

* * *

"I can't even, anymore. The only thing that's keeping me grounded after Arianne is, well, nothing."

* * *

 **Cicera Abit, 31**

 **Victor of the Forty-First Hunger Games**

 **District 5 Female Mentor**

The rotation dictated that she had to mentor the female tribute this year—something she always hated. Cicera was Five's most recent Victor, and the third female out of the four. Constantly being judged, belittled, and shamed for having not as much experience and her ways of staying passive, avoiding, and out of the way. Cicera had even chosen to reside not in the Victor's Village—it was too close to the power plants for that—and dreaded the mere thought of walking in sight of them.

The city was good. People for her to fade into the crowd. No stares, no recognition. She was, arguably, the most low-key Victor out of all the fifty-six, and that was perfect for Cicera.

Ambling through the busy urban streets, she looked at her feet, taking her step by step forwards. Not after long—too short a time—the people cleared, and it was only her alone on the little way to the Village.

 _Step by step,_ Cicera told herself. _Don't look up—don't look up._ She looked up. The power plants.

Memories she'd tried to hide from herself burst from their rendezvous to torture her. Cicera wasn't aware of herself falling to the hard gravel, stones burying themselves into her skin. She was glad of the physical pain it brought, but it wasn't enough to center her. It was like using a drug—too much over the years, and it had lost its original effect.

 _"Cerry, help!" Arianne screamed._

 _But she ignored it, worst of all; pretended to not be there. But Cicera saw it all—Arianne's burnt body, charred, after her face twisted into the mask of fear, of pain, and worst of all, lost hope. Arianne had expected her to stop it, to shut it off, to save her, yet she paid no heed, no last glance at her more-than-just-best-friends partner, who she had shared the happiest moments of her life with, who she had planned out an entire future with. It was all gone._

 _She focused on her footsteps and tried to block out Arianne from her mind, but she could only remember the cuddling, the dinners and binge-watching, the singing and karaoke nights they had together. How, how had this happened? She had escaped the Hunger Games eight years before and found Arianne two years after—the funniest, most encouraging person someone could have. And she was hers._ Was _. She was gone now. And her life would never be the same again._

 _Cicera huddled on the street corner, weeping heavily, tears flowing from her eyes. She was worthless without Arianne—even worse, because she had_ killed _her._

 _Why couldn't have it been the other way around?_

"Hey, Cicera? You all right?"

An all too familiar masculine face came into focus above her, and Cicera was only slightly aware of the blood around her knees and on the bumpy street where she had scraped herself.

Mustering a voice from her exhausted self, she mumbled, "Go away Erwin."

He frowned and replied, "We need to get you some help. If it's been this bad, you should have told me—we could have had the meeting somewhere else, or you might not have even needed to mentor a tribute all these years."

"Not... fair... to other... mentors."

"Cicera, do you want to postpone the discussion until tomorrow morning? You can spend the night at mine and I'll call Ridge over. She's the medicine expert here."

Cicera managed a brief smile. "Erwin, you don't need to fuss over me like always. You've done enough."

But her arguments were over as she fell into a deep sleep, Erwin's steady and muscular arms hoisting her light frame back to the Village.

* * *

"Yeah, I'm judging you. Everyone does it; I just acknowledge my judgmental side consciously."

* * *

 **Reign Flores, 33**

 **Victor of the Fortieth Hunger Games**

 **District 6 Male Mentor**

"Hey, you see that man in the right corner?" she asked Scarlett. "He's constantly glancing at us. Wanna give him a show? Your choice, girl."

She looked to the right again discreetly, a skill learned from countless years of experience, and her original assessment was right—he was, indeed, rich. Perhaps even a Capitolite in disguise—one could never know.

As Reign turned back to check on Scarlett's survival and to make sure that she was doing okay, she startled. _What does that girl think she's doing?_ she thought.

Indeed, Scarlett had disappeared, and upon further investigation and noticing, she was with that man in the right corner, dancing. _Oh, boy. Impulsive twenty-something-year-olds._

Sure, Reign was once twenty-six just like Scarlett, but she'd soon weeded herself off the more pleasurable things of life—most specifically, the one which could be done with someone else. She crossed the floor, wanting to grab a drink off the server's tray, but thought that scolding Scarlett with that in hand would come off as hypocritical.

Sidling over to the skinnier girl's side, she raised a thick brown eyebrow at the man. "Were you stealing my girl away here?" Reign asked, ignoring Scarlett's frown and partial confusion, partial anger.

The man flinched, seemingly afraid of being shunned by herself. She'd been used to her beauty all these years, she almost forgot what it was like to be admired to the point of being a source of addiction. Life went in circles, after all. As for Scarlett being "her girl," that couldn't be farther from the truth.

But with him aside, it was easy, with her physical strength that was a key attribute of getting herself through the Hunger Games, to pull Scarlett forcefully behind her and demand what the hell she was doing.

So she did. "What the _absolute hell_ were you doing back there?"

Scarlett squinted. "Um, excuse me? We went to this club to _have fun_ , and here's my version of fun! I'm a Victor; I deserve it."

"Aren't you a Rothchild? While I worked my butt off in the Games, your parents bought your victory. Shouldn't you be studying—whatever rich people do, anyway?"

Scarlett's eyes widened and she fumed. Reign was trying to get a rouse or reaction out of her, but she knew she had went too far with this one.

Attacked with a furious barrage of words, Reign could do nothing but wait it out. "Have you even watched my Games? You all have it easy, never having to worry about who you have to leave a good impression on next, and having all the freedom you want.

"Money and wealth binds people, people like me. I have absolutely nothing I love nor do for pleasure; the best way to show luxury, according to my family, is to sustain the wealth, and that means pressure and stress on the heir—that's me. And I'm only the heir because I had the biggest achievement out of my other three siblings. It's always been a race between us, and if they do something considered more impressionable than win the Hunger Games, my fortune and family money is void.

"That's a weak argument though. What really sucks is how I'm constantly being judged not for my legitimate character and personality, but for my usefulness as a resource and connections master. I want fricking friends, not associates. I want to shun money and wealth altogether in our society for us to all live equally, without barriers.

"But because our established system works so well for the Capitol to keep us in control—inner turmoil and divisions between people keep us separated, and therefore, weaker—they haven't let us do anything about it. And see, you just said it moments before. So don't judge based off one detail you see. You pride yourself on being observant, but seriously, you just leap to conclusions."

Reign was instantly glad she hadn't been the one to mentor her—Ling did, before their breakdowns started happening. But at least she could respect Scarlett as a fellow mentor. All these years, and she'd never expected anyone—especially Scarlett—to best her in an argument.

"Consider myself hasty. But you better show that ferocity towards encouraging and advising your tribute."

* * *

"Knowledge is power."

* * *

 **Trebuchet Michaels, 62**

 **Victor of the Thirteenth Hunger Games**

 **District 7 Female Mentor**

"Alanna, could you please hand me a glass of water?" they asked, mouth dry and thirsty, too busy scribbling down notes and bits of information to present to their mentoring partner when he arrived. God bless their hard-working house taker—she deserved much better than themself—but they couldn't bring themselves to stay alone, haunted by their Hunger Games.

Winning the Games through an extensive knowledge and book-smarts, Trebuchet's games were much easier than the more recent ones, but nevertheless, bloody and scary, along with suspenseful—no one knew what to expect.

To rehabilitate after the Games, though, they had gotten more and more into reading and obtaining as much knowledge as they could, and Trebuchet was now basically like a compilation of ancient history books. They'd even renamed themselves Trebuchet—to the horror of their parents, after the winning contraption they build during their Hunger Games. It was also a gender-neutral name, not associated with any particular gender like Vivianne had been, and they liked it that way.

The Capitol had never been accepting of their gender, but the name change, they dealt with, seeing as it was Games-related and ever the better to promote their show, but again, Trebuchet didn't go around telling everyone they were—most likely—agender; they were more low-key about it.

A knock came from the door, and they heard a set of footsteps entering.

"Good afternoon, Trebuchet. How are you this fine evening?"

"I'm good, thank you, Ganges, for asking. And you?"

"I'm well, but I must say—because 'are' is a verb, the correct word to use in response would be an adverb, not an adjective. Therefore, 'well' would suffice."

They groaned internally, but kept a polite facade on the outside. Ganges would get over his entire "grammar commander" phase in a while—after all, wasn't he only doing it to lord power over them?

"I'm _very_ —" people who said seniors couldn't use sarcasm would be extremely wrong in their case, "—sorry. However, 'are,' in this case, is a linking verb, and linking verbs take on adjectives. Please, learn to use your grammar correctly before scolding people. Knowledge is power, after all."

They said that last line in a smug, get-used-to-it tone, the one they took on whenever saying the line. It was their self-dubbed motto, after all, and to them, it was what they worshipped.

Ganges coughed. _Caught and cornered, aren't you?_

"Well," they began once again, "We better start brainstorming tribute mentoring ideas, especially training strategies. I suggest to have them do physical stations during the first day, then off the second day, so they can rest their cramps and stuff, and instead, learn about the arena's pros and cons, along with basic survival skills. We can teach them alliance strategies on the train rides." While Ganges was nit-picky, and got his facts wrong on occasion, he wasn't completely dumb; he was reliable enough, and most of all, loyal. They had never gotten on his friend-he-would-die-for side, but they weren't on his extreme-hate side.

He nodded in agreement, and they discussed further strategy ideas.

* * *

"People are so easily broken."

* * *

 **Macy Chiffon, 21**

 **Victor of the Fiftieth Hunger Games**

 **District 8 Female Mentor**

 _Life is precious, but is it me?_ she thought, sinking her fingernails into skin and taking solace in the pain. At least it was hers—something she could tether herself to. She knew her body was delicate, that she was lucky to have it intact after her life events, but sometimes wished she'd have never survived.

Mentoring was torture all over again to her sensitive heart—she poured so much into these tributes each year, only to have them die repeatedly, cut down during the Bloodbath, all her work and dedication wasted. The other mentors didn't understand what it was like—they treated it like a party, a time for fun and games, a celebration, and paid no heed to their tributes.

So Macy, precious Macy, who had survived the Hunger Games at thirteen with only luck, had to take over the male, and mentor both of them, draining her energy and making her look and feel like a ghost, unnoticed, but working hard to stay in contact with the rest of the world—often not even reaching the mortal lands, separate and lonely. And worst of all, the other two male Victors and how they treated her—it was brutal.

Twenty-two hours into the day was about when they would come in, fresh from sleeping with countless other women hours before, barging into her little villa at the southern-most corner of the Victor's Village like they owned it. Sure, she technically didn't—the Capitol did—but that definitely didn't give them the right.

And not a moment too soon, they came in, walking straight into the scene of Macy at the center of the hardwood floor in the living room, expression of grief and anguish on her face, a mere fraction of what she felt inside. It was enough to stop them in their tracks, and Macy felt a spark of hope— _would they actually leave me alone, even for a day?_ —but it was quickly shunted aside.

"Hey there, beautiful." The sly smile of Etu brought back an inconceivable amount of memories ranging from the first day she came back, to yesterday.

Instead of responding—she had learned her lesson; that would only quicken the process—Macy just ignored the both of them. _Creeps._ But there wasn't any way she could get help—a Victor's word would be taken seriously, but the other two were Victors as well.

As they came closer, her sense of security vanished, and then came the constant panic attacks. She couldn't escape. It was going to happen again.

A cry of pure desperation and anguish was wrenched from her. "Stop it, please!"

And Serge, the one who never said anything, the one who left all the talking to Etu, said something to her for the first time since her victory. "Make us."

It terrified her so. Macy's animal instincts took over, and she leapt at Serge, anger and frustration flying to shreds just like the skin and hair she was tearing right beneath her sharpened fingernails.

"Don't. Ever. Touch. Me. Again!" she shouted, ripping the soft fat till blood glistened on his body.

Macy was subconsciously aware of herself being pulled away from Serge by Etu, who held her by her waist, hands ever groping at her body.

She kicked backwards, hoping to make contact with her sneakers on a sensitive point of his body, to no avail.

"Sweetie, relax," he purred, raising the hairs on her neck. "Naturally, you will be punished, but pleasure is not the proper punishment fit for you. You can only imagine what appetizing plans I have for you next."

Macy kept on squirming, limbs whirling around until she, at last, hit Etu's face.

"Ouch! You'll pay for this, you little b—!"

 _Instinct will always overcome will,_ Macy noticed as she pounded the face of Etu, lying back-down on the ground. _And I'll make sure they'll pay for what they did to me._

* * *

"Some express themselves and get over murder through art. Me? I work. Hard."

* * *

 **Teff Farro, 38**

 **Victor of the Thirty-Fifth Hunger Games**

 **District 9 Male Mentor**

"Great work, Teff!"

"Aw, thanks, you too—" he struggled to put the other worker's face to a name. "Sorry—I forgot your name, bro."

The other worker smiled good-naturedly. "It's Millet. Like the grain we were just working with."

"Sorry, Millet. You did great as well," he replied, starting the brief walk back to his house.

If the name mixup had taken place right after Teff's victory, twenty-two years ago, he would have blushed in embarrassment, perhaps made a lousy excuse that saved his own ego and pride from taking a fall, but he was in the now, and changed a good deal for the better since then. Humility and humbleness, along with living a simple life without material were his current morals—the only things that could keep him sane after killing two other children like he, at that time.

Now, having no children of his own—hardly any of the Victors did—he treated his tributes like his children, enveloping himself into his work so to keep busy, too tired for his own demons and shadows from the Games to show up and haunt him.

Although there were two male Victors of Nine, he had insisted to the other that he could be the sole mentor, and had convinced him to retire at the age of forty-two. Alas, this meant that he had to work with the female mentors on a rotation. Even-yeared games weren't bad—Maize was decent mentor and loyal friend—but Quinoa was insufferable.

 _Speak of the devil; look who's here,_ he thought, as he came down the little stone walkway to his house, to find a brunette waiting at the front door, obviously annoyed, from her stance. But as the sole active male mentor for Nine, and therefore the one which would be mentoring every year, Teff was the Head Mentor, and meetings to quickly recap strategies and such were held in his house in the Victor's Village. The meetings were more of a courtesy than anything; they never discussed anything of substance so early, before they knew their tributes and what they were like.

"Good afternoon, Quinoa. How are you today?"

"I'm good, Millet, thank you."

He unlocked the door to his house and invited her inside, requesting her to take off her shoes to keep the floor clean, which she ignored. Teff raised an eyebrow at the gesture, but said nothing—the relationship between them was already on thin ice as it was.

"You _still_ haven't replaced this set of chairs, Teff?"

He followed her gaze to where she was eyeing the two chairs set up in the living room, the same chairs that the two mentors for the year would always sit in. Two years back, Quinoa had rudely interrupted his spiel on being good, diligent role models for the tributes to point out that the chairs were older than five years.

"I've told you before, in fact, two years ago: A simple lifestyle is one of luxury."

"And that means living like a Twelve citizen?"

"It means not being as materialistic as other are," he answered steadfastly. "Besides, I can do whatever I want. It's not in your case to ask."

"Are you telling _me_ what I can or cannot do? Teff, I get that you're the senior member and all, but I think the person with leadership qualities should obviously be the one talking strategy here. And that isn't you—sorry not sorry, hun."

 _Don't get angry. Anger is an uncontrollable emotion and control is a must in these situations._

Teff tried to stop himself—he really did. But as he recalled back upon all the odd-numbered years, and all the insensitive things she had said about him and his lifestyle and life choices, he burst.

"So you think it's that easy, Quinoa? All you want to mentor for is the glory that it'll bring you, not the tribute. We're supposed to be guidance members, secondary adults to the tributes, to advise them and teach them how to win the Games so they can survive. Don't you ever feel sick to your stomach whenever you see the male and female tributes get Reaped, just like you once were? Well, do you remember the guidance of your mentor, who is the _very reason why you survived_? The entire point of mentoring is for the passion, to pay back your success to help others succeed as well. And if you're too selfish for that, well, _get out_."

Quinoa chose to stay.

* * *

"We're all like hamsters in cages. And the scientists are the Capitolites."

* * *

 **Bos Sovib, 21**

 **Victor of the Forty-Ninth Hunger Games**

 **District 10 Male Mentor**

The mentoring rotation was _so_ stupid. It forced him to mentor every single year, as the other male Victor was seventy-something and retired, while the other three females got to switch off with each other.

All systems were just outrageously terrible, evil ways for the Capitol to turn the citizens of various districts against each other. The favoritism of certain families and hatred against others, like himself.

Of course, he was one of the more rebellious Victors, excepting the most recent, Cranola of Eleven. Like her Games, Bos' were rigged in his favor via Head Gamemaker Felix Junius as well, running his betting scheme from inside connections. He acknowledged Junius for that, but didn't owe him in the least, and after all, self-salvation overcame debt.

The multiple attempts made on his life were enough to sell Junius out to the Capitol on his gambling tricks without a backwards glance. It was what had gotten him out of the Hunger Games, after all—the ability to backstab and manipulate others into thinking he had morals and loyalty, whereas he would betray whenever it benefitted him.

Despite this, a year ago, he had gotten into dating, another system he couldn't stand—but this one was unique in the fact that he tolerated it. Accav Herder, at age twenty-four, was another Victor from Ten who shared his opinions on politics and whatnot; just kept them to herself—and now, him.

To be truthful, he didn't think anything romantically of her at first, only marked Accav as a threat due to her low-key tendencies yet how she still won the Games with her bloody killing streak, then thought nothing of it. Only as the relationship between them developed, he got more invested, and he had yet another date with her tonight.

Straightening his tie and brushing some non-existent dust off his suit, Bos set off for Accav's house on the other side of the Village.

He knocked firmly on the door, waiting for her to hold it open and invite him in, which she did. As they settled down on two chairs opposite each other, the two started conversing.

"Good evening, Accav," he pronounced the name with a slight accented tilt. "How are you doing this lovely night?"

"I'm doing great, thanks to you," she said smiling and blushing. "How are you?"

"Likewise," he said smoothly, doing his best to remain suave. That girl sure knew how to compliment him well. "So, what are your opinions on the newest Capitol bill?"

"Which one?" she giggled, the hairs on his neck raising at the delightful sound. "There've been three passed in the past week."

"The one most concerning us, of course. Like, the new law restricting people in involvement with the Games in any way from participating in gambling?" Bos knew the reason behind this—he was the one who had spurred it due to the release of the information concerning Junius, but this was a final test for Accav, to see if he could get fully involved and even, in the short future, propose.

"Ah, yes, that one. To be honest, I don't really care for it at all."

Bos pretended to be surprised, and let out an audible gasp. "Accav Herder, not caring for politics? What must be happening?!"

She laughed again, a bright sound that woke the room up. "It just really doesn't concern me. Sure, perhaps some other Victors may be betting on their own tributes, that's not me. And besides, it's not really the most fairest thing to do, letting people in contact with tributes betting on or against them. Sabotage or steroids could bring it either way."

It was the answer he expected from her, along with being the right answer, and Bos felt a glow of righteousness and warmth coming from inside him. Once his newest tribute won the Games and joined the Victor's rotation, he would finally propose.

* * *

"My Games may have been rigged, but that isn't why I won."

* * *

 **Cranola Birch, 17**

 **Victor of the Fifty-Sixth Hunger Games**

 **Assisting District 11 Mentor**

"Since you won the Games last year, we need to get your briefed on the specifics on mentoring," Anta told Cranola. "You saw how I treated you; I expect the same towards these new tributes.

"Luckily enough, you don't have to mentor this year; we'll pull your own weight. But only for this year, and you'll still be assisting Tolys and I with the new tributes."

Cranola looked around. Tolys? He was Victor a few years ago, but she'd never seen him around, nor had most the citizens of Eleven. Glancing over at the corner, she spotted him, and though she knew he was young, winning at the age of twelve, she didn't expect him to be younger than she was.

Tolys' eyes captured her attention. They were black, not uncommon for District Eleven citizens, but—ugh, this felt so stereotypical—they were like bottomless holes, sucking in information about her, even as she was doing something so mundane like looking at him and when he caught her gaze, he held it creepily. Cranola held in a shudder but couldn't help letting it out as he smiled creepily at her, revealing pointed teeth, of all things.

She quickly looked away to Anta for help, who chided the other boy. "Now, now, kids, no time moping and whining about! Time's a'wasting and we have to brief Cranola here."

 _That's all she says to Tolys? Not "stop being so creepy" or something even related to that?_ she thought, and raised her voice to speak her opinion. "Yes, please brief me. But please, Tolys, stop being like that. I can tell you absolutely charmed the Capitol audiences..."

"And I can tell you absolutely won the Games due to your mental and physical skill. Someone else who had that skill and ability to win the Hunger Games _died_ because even though you didn't deserve it and he did, you were set up to win in the beginning." He hit her right in her weak spot.

As Anta started to object, Cranola pushed her away, not caring for the fact that it was rude. She would and could handle this herself. "If you are too nearsighted to tell, Tolys, I won the Games, and that is that. I even had a score far higher than yours of a measly one—five. My betting odds were higher than yours and at least I didn't cry when I got Reaped. People thought and expected me to have a chance at winning," she retorted. "I cannot comprehend why I would have been set up in any way."

"People nowadays are stupid."

"I can't believe that's the only refute you can come up with, Mr. Crybaby." Cranola didn't care that calling him names brought her down to a level of immaturity that made bad impressions. She only cared to defend herself now, the same survival instinct that had brought her into the Final 3. "I am _so_ much smarter than you."

And this, to her surprise, seemed to trigger Tolys heavily. "Impossible. I can already tell that you're so much dumber than me because you're saying that. Perhaps some people have legitimate _strategies_ instead of just waiting to die or trying to fight, or, in some people's case, relying on luck, so our previous Head Gamemaker can bet on you and rig the Games in your favor." He was red in the face now, and his eyes were furious, churning depths that threatened to kill her as soon as Anta was out of sight.

"TOLYS!" Cranola had never heard Anta raise her voice before, not when she was terrible at being a good person to mentor, nor when she allied with the worst possible people during the Games. So it surprised her when she shouted at Tolys.

There had to be something classified going on, something Tolys had let slip.

Had her Games actually been rigged?

* * *

"The Hunger Games were the most terrifying thing I have ever experienced."

* * *

 **Maren Carbo, 37**

 **Victor of the Thirty-Seventh Hunger Games**

 **District 12 Male Mentor**

Even though they should have been doing their annual preparations for the tributes getting sent to die, Maren and Pruna were out clubbing. Never mind the fact that the only club in Twelve was home to known rapists and drug users—they steered clear of them and besides, Victors had status and prestige, and Maren and Pruna made sure to keep their homosexual dating unknown to the public to ruin that.

Every year, they alternated who would mentor the females, and who would mentor the males, provided that they wanted to be mentored apart from each other—most insisted on it, though it was hard to clearly remember who when the bright strobe lights and the beat of the bass pounded into her head, distracting her from her thoughts.

"Pruna, let's go outside for a sec so we can clear our heads!" she shouted over the ruckus. Maren didn't see the appeal of clubbing in the least, but Pruna loved the adrenaline rush and how the features of the club took away her senses until only the brightness of the neon lights and pounding music remained. She'd told Maren multiple times that even her memories of the Hunger Games and the nightmares which tormented her disappeared.

Oh, how much Maren wished that could happen to her, as well. But she'd already found her light in the dark to guide her—Pruna. Though they were pretty much polar opposites—Maren coming off as quiet and shy, Pruna coming off as loud—it was Pruna's mask to hide for all the terrible thoughts she had only revealed to one other person: Maren. And they had exchanged memories, emotions, all sorts of feelings and reminiscents relating to the Games.

Sure, Maren had been in not exactly the best state right after the Hunger Games, but Pruna's reaction was worse, and her entire demeanor changed, from the sweet and bubbly girl terrified for her life on the train rides while she was being mentored, to _this,_ now. Not that she didn't like the new Pruna, but especially when the change was so abrupt, taking place during a six-day games, it startled her.

"Right, Maren! Coming right out!" she overheard Pruna replying back to her.

As they walked outside the club, she thought she smelled something on Pruna's breath. "Hey, Pruna, did you have anything tonight?"

They were under an unspoken agreement to never use alcohol nor drugs after they'd seen what had happened to the people who did. It was also, in her opinion, a dark path for people who wanted to die early; not a path for Victors of the Hunger Games. It was an easy way to cope, and, as they had both learned from their respective arenas, the easiest way was usually a trap.

And through the leaked arena pictures that had gotten into her hands via a very manipulative and willy Pruna, her first impression was that there were going to be traps indeed. Better to sponsor their tributes every resource than to risk their deaths due to some arena trap.

 _If she..._ Maren couldn't even think of it. She'd been through enough betrayal already—first her parents, then her allies, and now perhaps even Pruna?

"Just a little fun," she laughed.

 _Definitely drunk,_ Maren thought with a crushing feeling in her heart.

"Pruna, are you drunk." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. She saw Pruna stop dead in her tracks and looked confused.

"Of course not, Maren, don't be silly. We're under the oath!"

"You know me, paranoid and all," she replied, but Maren knew this paranoia was supported—she'd remove herself from Pruna a little and go on from there. The Hunger Games had taught her enough.

* * *

 **A/N: And here are mentor introductions! Sorry it got a little long, but I hope that y'all, even if you scrolled directly all the way down to see if your tribute made it in, read this prologue, because I spent an incredibly and unforeseeably long time on this and these people are who your tribute rely on for their survival (or not, if they're independent and stuff.)**

 **So, thanks for all your fantastic submissions and I can't wait to get this story on the road! The chapter scheduled for Tuesday might be posted on Wednesday because of school, but I'll try my best to get it out on the specified day. Can't wait to see your opinions on the mentors! Reviews are my loves ;)**

 **EDIT: I also realized that I forgot to tell y'all the puns! Number one was "makeSHIFT toga," and two was "lying to the Capitol is a CAPITAL offense." Pine, you got that one! :D Without further ado, the tribute list!**

 **District 1 Male: Mazaryn Carnova, 18**  
 **District 1 Female: Nevaeh Glorianna Villanueva, 18**

 **District 2 Male: Roland Blackstone, 18**  
 **District 2 Female: Sarisa Karlen, 18**

 **District 3 Male: Mason Banks, 18**  
 **District 3 Female: Arachne Tylante, 14**

 **District 4 Male: Tiburon Chen, 18**  
 **District 4 Female: Delphine Chen, 18**

 **District 5 Male: Galvan Phelps, 15**  
 **District 5 Female: Esfir Voltaict, 14**

 **District 6 Male: Romaeus Storrickon, 17**  
 **District 6 Female: Viatrix Sloane, 15**

 **District 7 Male: Buck Nielssen, 15**  
 **District 7 Female: Heather Rosa-Tran, 18**

 **District 8 Male: Ryu Min-Ji, 17**  
 **District 8 Female: Trilby Alistair, 14**

 **District 9 Male: Consus Neil-Kellogg, 17**  
 **District 9 Female: Sheryl Therminosa, 12**

 **District 10 Male: Benji Patten, 13**  
 **District 10 Female: Callia "Lia" Rosales, 18**

 **District 11 Male: Linus Persimmon, 13**  
 **District 11 Female: Bethany Hopper, 16**

 **District 12 Male: Ash Ember, 15**  
 **District 12 Female: Piper Gavins, 12**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	5. Chapter 5 — Prologue

"I chose a tigress because they're fierce and strong, but still loyal and caring—exactly who I strive to be."

* * *

 **Requia "Tigris" Pelasse, 36**

 **District 2 Stylist**

The designs for the tributes' arena outfits had come a bit late to her liking. Of course, perhaps that was typical Tigris, always wanting to get the jump on things, ever the work-a-holic wannabe Capitol stylist.

The surgery had been successful; Tigris had finally earned enough money for it and the name change fit with the fifty-fifth games anyway—the jungle arena. Her tail was perfect and she found it glamorous. But from the other stylists' expressions and reactions, they were judging her harsh for it.

 _Oh well. You gain some, you lose some._ That was her motto anyway. And besides—she was Head Stylist so who cared if anyone opposed her? She wouldn't lose her job, nor would she tolerate that kind of personal criticism.

She dinged the bell and sat down, all the other stylists and their assistants sitting with them at their personalized working cubicles. It was hard to speak over the low chatter, but she managed with the microphone.

"Good afternoon, everyone. The official shipments for your tributes' arena outfits have come in, and they are under your desks. Please open them right now."

The sounds of cardboard boxes being sliced open, some with keys, other with bare hands, was projected all around the room and Tigris stifled a cringe at the noise.

The first exclaims of surprise came out. It was always so nice knowing that she was the only one who knew what the tributes' arena outfits and the arena itself was way before all the other stylists, and especially nice holding it over all their heads.

"What the actual _hell_ are these things?"

The room filled with echoes of assent and a few snickers came from that corner. She heard a snarky, "That's what she said," coming from that same section—the corner of District Ten. Ah, so it was Oolong and his assistants.

"As you can see," she replied to the general noise, "the arena will be one of Ancient Rome. This is in stark contrast to the typical black jumpsuits worn by tributes heading in, so we'll see how that plays out."

"B-But how would they even run in these?" someone asked, and others supported that question.

"We're looking to make the arena very accurate with Ancient Rome and history; that's only right," she replied, repeating what Rya had told her a few days before. "They're to wear the toga that matches with their status."

"Wait, but this is a different one than all the others! Why is that?" the District Seven stylist, Pulchritudino, complained. "I think it's a manufacturing error; it's way too long!"

Tigris tried to recall what Rya had told her. She was no expert on Roman history nor dress, so she said what she thought was right. "Um, that's a _stola_. It's a dress reserved for married women. Is your female tribute married?"

He stuttered. "I'm actually not sure—I haven't watched the Reaping recaps yet."

"Well, you better watch them now," she replied.

She felt a light touch on her back, and a tiny woman requested, "If you please—may I further explain these articles of clothing and each of their representations?"

Tigris managed a grateful smile at the District Five stylist, who she recognized as Lola, a girl who was born in a boy's body. She was extremely kind and considerate at all times; shame the other stylists shunned her for being transgender, and Tigris felt an affectionate sort of motherly love for her. "Of course," she responded. Then, to the rest of the crowd, she shouted to be heard, "Quiet, now, please. I know you all are confused about this clothing choice, but we have Lola here to explain."

"Thank you, Tigris. So, pick up the first piece. It should be a swab of clothing looking sort of like a long t-shirt and skirt, all attached into one. Excepting the _stola,_ of course, all tributes are wearing this. It's called a _tunic._

"On to the footwear, I think this is what's going to cause you the most problems during these Games. They're sandals, naturally, and as some of you have noticed, they're not exactly the best things to be running around in. But they're legitimately what the Ancient Romans wore—even though only men wore them.

"Oh! I almost forgot. Some of the more observant of you all may have realized that there are three kinds of tunics. There's this white one with a reddish border, there's a pure white one, and there's a belted one.

The reddish one is for those of you who have boys from age twelve to age sixteen. The pure white one is for males seventeen or eighteen, and the belted one is reserved for non-married women or girls. The boys who wear a reddish tunic also have to wear a golden medallion—yes, Silvia, it looks like real gold, but don't steal it—called a _bulla._ "

"Thank you so much, Lola, for your input and words, though I think it went through half of those guys' knuckled-heads," she spoke with a laugh. "I found it very informational."

"Thanks, Tigris."

"Say, where did you get that information?"

Lola squirmed and looked quite uncomfortable. Tigris, seeing that most the stylists had disassembled or had focused on designing their tributes' chariot outfits, brought Lola to behind the presentation curtain.

"Please don't tell me you acquired that information illegally."

"No—of course not!" she exclaimed, and Tigris had the grace to look ashamed. "It just brings back memories of _why_ I read so many books on the Ancient world. There was nothing else, no one else to befriend me and take me in, but history was always my buddy. I'm sorry, Tigris, I..." she stuttered and Tigris felt terrible. She had undergone this as well, during her entire _I-wanna-be-a-tiger-phase_.

She tried to console the younger female, but comforting wasn't her forte. "I'm really sorry, Lola. I hope you'll forgive me." She awkwardly patted her back, unsure what else she could do.

"I'm fine. Thanks, though." Lola slipped back to the other side of the curtain.

Tigris waited half a minute so it wouldn't seem like they were conspiring, then went to the other side herself.

* * *

"I love the Hunger Games! They're always so entertaining to watch."

* * *

 **Aurelia Quinta, 20**

 **Potential Tribute Sponsor**

"Hello, betting odds!" she said as she looked at the screen. Already, the predicted placements for tributes were coming in, and Aurelia needed to get her best probability head on. Having her father, one of the people running the (private and untradeable) stock markets of Panem had greatly influenced her grasp and knowledge on popularity, trends, and how history repeats itself.

She clicked onto the sponsor list—already up, what a surprise—and read the list of items. There were a few unusual requests, and she made a mental note to review the abnormal ones and question why they were here.

 _SPONSOR ITEMS_

 _FOOD_  
 _(Meals include a cup, measuring half a water bottle, of water, without a lid)_

 _Fruit: 2_  
 _Loaf of bread: 3_  
 _Bag of jerky: 4_  
 _Other form of protein (PM me for details): 4_  
 _Sustainable meal: 9_  
 _Hearty meal: 15_  
 _Full-course meal: 18_  
 _Bag of hay: 3_

 _CLEAN WATER_

 _Empty water bottle: 2_  
 _Full water bottle: 6_  
 _Water treatment tablets (enough for 2 bottles of water): 10_

 _SURVIVAL_

 _12 matches: 3_  
 _Rope: 2_  
 _Flint/Steel: 6_  
 _Coal: 2 per piece_  
 _1-person tent: 20_  
 _2-person tent: 28_  
 _5-people-max tent: 40_  
 _Blanket: 4_  
 _Heated blanket: 12_  
 _Sleeping bag: 4_  
 _Insulated sleeping bag: 20_

 _CLOTHING AND ACCESSORIES_

 _Athletic shirt: 5_  
 _Athletic pants: 6_  
 _Athletic shoes: 8_  
 _Rain jacket: 10_  
 _Hoodie: 9_  
 _Socks: 4_  
 _Sunhat: 3_  
 _Beanie: 2_  
 _Sunglasses: 5_

 _WEAPONS_

 _Sword of choice: 45_  
 _1 knife of choice: 6_  
 _2 knives of choice: 12_  
 _4 knives of choice: 24_  
 _8 knives of choice: 48_  
 _Ceremonial/sacrificial blade: 12_  
 _Spear: 30_  
 _Trident: 35_  
 _Whip: 25_  
 _Bow of choice: 50_  
 _Empty quiver: 10_  
 _12 arrows AND quiver: 30_  
 _12 arrows: 24  
_ _12 crossbow bolts: 24_  
 _Shield: 24_  
 _Personalized/engraved shield (PM me with your tribute's motto): 28_  
 _Other weapons/defensive items: Bring it to the Head Gamemaker and she'll decide if permitted or not, with a price if needed_

 _OTHER_

 _A copy of Rya's ROMA book (but it's bulky and heavy): 45_  
 _Pocket Latin-to-English Dictionary: 30_

 _Anything else: Bring to the Head Gamemaker—this includes medicines_

* * *

 **A/N: Wow, I'm sorry if this felt a little bit rushed/forced—I just really want to get to the Games and sorta just felt like skipping this last prologue, lol. But in all seriousness, I don't think I'm going to introduce the escorts yet because I want them to be a surprise ;) Also, credits to tracelynn, who I based my own sponsor items list from. She's amazing; check her out!**

 **The blog link is here: venividivicihg. blogspot. com (take out spaces)  
Blog reviews are fantastic, plus they give you an automatic 15 points!  
**

 **Also, a note on Predicted Placements: they're not my Predicted Placements—I have no idea who's even going to die in the Bloodbath yet, and probably won't until the day before. It's basically the Capitol's opinion and stuff, based off appearances, districts, age, and if they volunteer or not. That's literally it. Don't take them seriously. Also, in a lot of SYOT everyone says that the person whose Predicted Placement is 1st never wins, but that may not be true; I haven't decided anything yet. :D**

 **If your tribute needs an item at any time that's not on the list, just PM me and I'll settle on a price. The prices might actually be subject to change, depending on the number of chapters—right now, I have twenty-five Pre-Games chapters planned, but it may only be twenty; we'll see.**

 **Reviews are 2-4 points each, depending on the quality, and I'll have a comprehension question or two at the end of each chapter starting from the Reapings.**

 **So, what did you think? Y'all ready for this to get started?**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	6. Chapter 6 — District 1 Reaping

"I absolutely love watching people's reactions."

* * *

 **Mazaryn Carvona, 18**

 **District 1 Tribute**

It was the down to the Final Two choices for the Volunteers, and Mazaryn already knew he was going to win.

"You're goin' down, Al." His fighting plan flashed through his mind. _Pin, disable, slice._

Alan growled. _Going for the mental intimidation game here, huh?_ Mazaryn blocked Alan's intimidation and used previous sparring knowledge to predict how he'd act. _Angry when I'm unresponsive, then frustrated; impatient. Attack right after._

They circled around in the small fighting circle, too small for the throwing knives Alan favored, which was good—he had the advantage. But Mazaryn didn't need to exploit that anyway; it was just nice knowing it was there.

Sure enough, after a minute of circling, Alan grew restless; it was on his face and expressions, but he clearly didn't want to make the first move. Groans and jeers echoed from the rest of the other Academy trainees and he was scandaled but not surprised at Ettien's deep voice ringing above the rest.

"Are you waiting for your dad to come back, or what? What are you waiting for, bro! Hurry up and finish him!"

Mazaryn fumed. "Shut up and stop being such a d—, Ettien."

And naturally, that's when Alan took the first move, striking with a fist to Mazaryn's head, which he easily dodged. Alan always went for the head, and even though Mazaryn stood at a tall six feet, four inches, that didn't mean he couldn't dodge.

Now that he was kneeling, Mazaryn was at the perfect place to strike Alan right in every male's sensitive spot. It was either that, or take him down with the move the trainers called a "Duck Under," a move that wasn't optimal for the position he was in. Stupid honor moves hardly ever worked anyway. Al crumpled, and Mazaryn pinned the other boy at the elbows and knees, knowing his joints did the most damage.

More jeers came from the gathering crowd, despite Mazaryn's relative popularity.

"If you continue like that, you're dad's finally gonna come home because he can hear his wife screaming that his son's finally lost his v—"

Mazaryn blocked Ettien from his mind as he took out the fake knife and mimed slicing it across the other boy's throat. Cheers erupted and the other trainees seemed not to care he'd won with a cheap move.

"Our new Volunteer, Mazaryn Carvona!" Head Trainer Ilius escorted his barely-sweaty figure out of the ring and gestured for him to step up on a pedestal, to which he agreed, elation lighting up his figures. He'd done it and offered a firm handshake to Alan.

"Good fight, bro."

Alan, still obviously angry about the fight just swallowed it and replied with a salty, "You too. Congrats." He'd probably ask for a rematch later in the day and Mazaryn was still unsure whether he'd accept or not—there wasn't any use in beating an already dead man any further.

While the girls' final fight was going on, he chatted with Panther Eguchi, the Victor of the forty-seventh Hunger Games. This man was most likely to be his mentor, and Mazaryn felt the need to get close to him for survival. He was sure in himself and his abilities, but this man knew all the logistics about getting sponsors and though his attractive and easy-going figure would make it easy, there may have been some Capitol etiquette he didn't know.

"Hey, you're Panther, right? I'm Mazaryn—nice to meet you." Mazaryn already knew, like everyone else there, who he was, but there wasn't any harm in asking. The question often made people more welcoming to conversation anyway.

"Yes, I'm Panther. Nice to meet you too, Mazaryn," he reached out his hand for a shake, which Mazaryn met firmly.

Mazaryn smiled welcomingly, cheerful nature trying to draw Panther in. "So I heard you're mentoring me—is that right?"

"Of course."

 _Not very talkative._ "I saw how you won the Games by staying modest, respectful, and low-key, and I admire that about you and I'm looking forwards to being mentored."

"As am I."

"So, have any tips—anything I should practice, bro?"

"From me? Why, I'm honored. To be honest, just keep a level head and don't let anything disturb you—but you've already got that down."

"Yeah, thanks," Mazaryn smiled. It was sort of awkward looking down on a guy nine years older than him and who he was supposed to look up to, and he was going to bring that up, but realized that it was silly and Panther's severe personality'd most likely just look down on him for that.

"Z, we gotta go, bro." The nasal voice of his friend Graham interrupted his thoughts.

He was obviously in a rotten mood, envious of the other Trainees who were still there, who hadn't dropped out and were able to keep up. _Better not argue with him, then,_ he thought as he waved goodbye to Panther, hoping he'd made a good first impression. Those kinds of people were the hardest to get a read out of—the closed-off and secretive and quiet types who didn't like opening up to others, but he was confident he'd succeed in the end.

"So, G, what's up?" As Mazaryn led the way out of the Academy, his other three closest friends formed a pack around him. "So everyone, what's up?"

"Not much," they replied.

"How are you doing?" Marlen asked, as Graham and Ettien got into a side argument about Graham's new hairstyle.

"I'm doing great, thanks for asking, dude. You?"

"Same. You better get ready for Reapings though—I know your mom, she'd hate for you to be late..." he looked at his gold-encrusted watch pointedly.

"I left my watch at home—couldn't wear it to spar. What time's it?"

"You've got like half an hour. Should be enough, right? Not sure 'bout you, but I can surely seduce a girlie of mine during that time," he added with a wink.

"Yeah, course," he replied to Graham. To the rest, he said, "See you all in thirty. Be on time, guys, to watch me volunteer."

"Right, we gotcha back."

He knew they truly didn't mean that—they were all into girls anyway—but he didn't let that knowledge show. The lot of them weren't the most loyal, but their status did for Mazaryn's mother. And besides, he didn't expect them to be that loyal, because when the time came, he wasn't truly either.

And with that slightly disturbing thought, he sprinted for his family's house, a few minutes away from the Academy, and got there in one. Rushing through the front door, careful not to continue his sprinting and to take off his shoes as a sign of respect, he climbed the flights of stairs up to his own room and put on his tuxedo, straightening a bow tie.

Brushing a comb through his hair and gelling it upwards, he descended the stairs again, maintaining the aura of peace and calm well-kept throughout the house.

"Mother, I'm leaving for the square right now," he informed her stern figure.

"You surely cannot go out looking like that!"

He looked down at his outfit, suppressing a frown, but knowing better to argue with his mother. This was what he wore to formal events. "Of course not, Mother. That would be silly. But what shall I wear instead?"

She pulled out a hanger from the downstairs closet and took the black bag concealing the outfit. "This is what you'll be wearing. It's perfect, don't you think?"

A new crisp black formal suit, perfectly tailored for his muscular frame and height to show off his physique. "Of course, Mother. Thank you."

Mazaryn climbed back up the stairs to change and began to walk out the door.

"I know your father isn't here to see you, but he would be proud of you for finding your own way out of these crummy districts. It'll be for the best," she said with a last glance. _She never says that._ "I'll be right in the square as you volunteer. I'll see you then."

"See you."

* * *

"People look at me and see a Hispanic girl. I look at myself and see someone who's never stopped working for herself."

* * *

 **Nevaeh Glorianna Villanueva, 18**

 **District 1 Tribute**

"You've got this, Nevaeh," Guin told her. "Beat that Goldbloom girl up!"

"Yeah, go Nevaeh!" Ecstasy shouted.

The rest of her squad, Roxanne and Ava, offered her their encouragement, and Nevaeh stepped into the ring to fight. She was determined to beat Valerie Goldbloom out from the spot, but knew the odds weren't in her favor for this match.

Flipping her ponytail of dark brown hair behind her back, she steadied herself and evaluated the competition. Valerie never defended; only attacked. It was her weak spot, and Nevaeh knew it. Even though combat and the physical parts of the Academy weren't her favorite (she preferred poisons), she could win the strategic and mental game. Keeping Valerie's weaknesses in her mind as the other girl advanced, she took it upon herself to play defensive, acknowledging it that Valerie's offensive would lose its fire after it hit a wall.

Sure enough, Valerie went for the attack, Nevaeh's solid defense rendering the other girl's punches useless after a while. She was stronger than that blonde b— and knew it; she had _worked hard_ to get here, not just relying on bribes and old money. She could not, would not, lose her chance at the title of Victor to this ditz who would get absolutely wrecked in the legitimate Hunger Games.

Nevaeh pinned the skinnier girl down as she screamed profanities. They both wanted this, obviously, but Nevaeh wanted it _most_. And not the glory nor glamour of being a Victor—no, she wanted the _title_. All her life, she'd been obsessed with watching game shows in the Capitol since her family could afford to buy a private television and cable and Nevaeh had been exposed to the status and how people were remembered for their skills in that particular game show. Well, she wanted to be remembered for winning the fifty-seventh games via intellect and skills.

And those same skills were leading her to drive an elbow into the other girl's stomach.

"You're not—" she gasped as Nevaeh's elbow made contact, "—freaking blonde! You don't des—"

"If you think I can't win if I'm not built like—or look like—you, then you're," she got up, taking out the blunted knife and pretending to swipe across Valerie's neck, wiping her hands on her sweatpants after, "WRONG. I'll show you all."

And with that, she walked out of the ring, not even bothering to give the other girl the courtesy handshake. _At least my impulsivity hadn't gotten the best of me there,_ she thought. _I'm getting better at stopping it before everything goes haywire._

"Watch your back. I'm still the backup Volunteer, after all," the other one shot back as Nevaeh left, who pretended to ignore her but filed the information away for the few hours left until the Reaping. She planned to go directly home as to not make her vulnerable any sabotage.

Stepping out of the ring, she demanded, "Squad _up_!" Her "friends" assembled around her, a collection of useful qualities for her to take advantage of. Except for Guin, of course. But Guin was different.

"Anyone up for a quick round of chess before the Reaping later today?" she asked the other four.

"I'd be up for it—be prepared to lose," Guin snarked back.

This bantering was usual for them, and unlike with all the other teenaged girls who weren't completely dumb, Nevaeh didn't take her as a threat to her Academy training, because Guin wasn't the most physically talented.

"Ava, Roxanne, Ecstasy, do you all want to play as well?" She would happily ditch them in favor of the company of Guin, but they were useful assets to have around, and besides, she had to have them close by her so other people couldn't steal those qualities from her own squad to form their squads.

"I'm in," Roxanne said, ever the go-getter.

"If you would like me to, then," Ava replied, the timid and shy, but nice and motherly one.

"Same!" responded Ecstasy, the copier.

 _Classic of them all,_ Nevaeh thought. "Let's go, then! My house?"

They set off towards Nevaeh's house on the outskirts of the upper district and her group waited awkwardly behind the threshold as her mother embraced her into a hug at the front door.

"Nevaeh, darling, you're back early, I see! Come on—invite your friends in for a few, but you have to leave in about half an hour."

"Hi, Mom!" Reaching past her mother's figure, she hugged Hosanna, her younger 16-year-old sister, and gave a quick pat on the head to Alejandro, her younger brother. "Sure, thanks—Hey, Hosanna, is that _my shirt_?"

The younger girl blushed and an apologetic look crossed her face. "Sorry, sis. But like, I really like the style and—"

Nevaeh cut her off. "It's all right, Hosanna. But we need to have yet another talk about this later." She led her group into the house, settling in the living room, and got out three chess boards.

"Hosanna, wanna join us?" she asked, words feigning politeness, but underneath lay the commanding tone she had. Her sister couldn't say no, not in front of an audience.

"Roxanne, play Hosanna." She knew her friend's common "strategy" of eating all the big pieces and overlooking a checkmate would contrast nicely with her sister's, who played very conservatively.

"Ecstasy, play Ava," she continued. Ever since the beginning, when she had evaluated all the girls in the Academy by playing chess with them, she had noticed Ecstasy's way of imitating the other player's moves. Ava's sweet and passive strategy, as she was scared of upsetting anyone if she won, would challenge Ecstasy and force her to think of her own moves, for once.

"And I'll play Guin." Guin would be difficult to beat, as they were so alike on many levels, but she wasn't too threatening for Nevaeh to not befriend. She had actually beaten Nevaeh once, but that was a few months ago, and she had improved. But again, so did Guin.

Twenty-seven minutes later of non-stop chess, the results were broadcasted. Hosanna had lost to Roxanne, Ecstasy to Ava, and Guin to Nevaeh, barely.

Nevaeh checked the time and startled internally. There were only fifteen more minutes until the Reaping, and—though she wasn't worried for her own time-management—the other girls needed to prepare, and to be there on time for when she was going to volunteer.

"Girls! It's almost time for the Reaping—you all should go get ready. See you in fifteen at the square?"

They all agreed, and waved goodbye to each other. As soon as they were gone, Nevaeh turned to her sister, Hosanna.

"Hosanna, I've told you over and over not to steal my clothes. It's honestly really annoying, especially if I want to wear an article of clothing that you're currently wearing. What about next time, you ask me first if it's all right beforehand?" she tried her best to present a reasonable and logical front beneficial in the long game to her sister instead of throwing her queen out there and wrecking havoc but losing the advantage later on.

"I'm sorry, sis... I just really like your fashion sense and you always look good in your clothes while I look... well, not as good..."

Nevaeh wrapped her in a hug. "Hosanna, you look brilliant in anything you wear, and don't let _anyone else_ tell you otherwise. Even if everyone else is against you, Abuela, Mother, Father, Alejandro, and I will always be on your side, and that's what counts. Who cares what other people think of you? Show them better; show them that you're _confident_ in yourself—that's why I'm Volunteering today."

"You're too sweet, sis," Hosanna replied, with a huge smile nonetheless. "But you better get going, it's almost time for the Reaping!"

"Thanks for the reminder; love you!"

"You too."

* * *

"I'm loud, but that doesn't mean I'm stupid."

* * *

 **Gloria Alvi, 40**

 **District 1 Female Mentor**

Dressed to impress in her flouncy pink gown that accented her still-perfect body at age forty, Gloria Alvi gave a bright smile to the audience as the escort fluidly pulled a slip from the male's bowl.

"Percy Karat!"

"I volunteer!" A confident-but-not-cocky voice rang from the 18-year-olds section. As she turned and looked, the voice belonged to a boy of Singaporean descent wearing a _very_ formal yet dressy suit that looked good on him—not something she'd readily admit if not for these circumstances, this boy being Panther's tribute.

"What's your name?" the escort asked him as he finished striding up to the stage.

The teenager replied, "I'm Mazaryn Carvona—the one without a persona." Mazaryn smiled hopelessly while still somehow radiating self-assurance and charisma as the audience laughed and applauded at the cheesy rhyme.

Gloria sighed internally. She already had Panther to rival—did she really have to put up with his tribute's puns or rhymes or whatever the fad was nowadays? Or perhaps she'd have to be grateful because Mazaryn didn't have a persona. He looked sort of alike Panther, though. _Better him than me._ She rolled her eyes and focused her attention back on the escort.

"The female tribute will be...

"Onyxia Violet!"

"I volunteer as tribute!"

This faceless voice, strong and determined, was _her_ tribute for this year. She always loved this moment, the moment of reveal, of first impressions and if she liked or disliked them.

Gloria wasn't one to judge people by their appearances they couldn't change, but if she were one of those people, she would stiffen up and hope for the best, which, if she were them, wasn't much.

"And what's your name, Darling?"

"Nevaeh Villanueva," the volunteer replied, her exuberant strong will obvious.

"Anything you would like to say before you're... taken away?" the escort continued Mazaryn's rhyming scheme.

"All my life, I've had the entirety of the District excepting my family and friends rooting against me. I'm here to show you all that glory, power, victory, titles, do not belong to the ones who believe they deserve it. They belong righteously to the people who have worked for it, who have spent countless hours, days, months, years, beating their way to the top. Like me."

And with that, she shook Mazaryn's hand and sat down next to Gloria, calculating expression on her face as the audience cheered again, even more so than with Mazaryn's line.

 _Here's my second Victor, right here, and there's no way this one can rely on luck. That'll show Panther._

"Well said, and thank you," the escort replied to an empty stage but full audience. "We all believe District One will go far this year."

* * *

 **A/N: Woah, so that was the first Reaping I've ever written, and I have to say, it was really fun while challenging, but I'm the type of person who seeks challenge, so yep! A note relating to profanity: I'm not going to use any profane words except a few (i.e. crap) so I'm just "bleeping" them out with dashes. I just don't feel comfortable writing the legitimate word out, sorry.**

 **But hopefully I didn't screw any of these two tributes up, and if I did, tell me, please. I love constructive criticism. :D**

 **Right, so I said I'd have a chapter question for sponsors, inspired by the amazing tracelynn. The question this time is: Who is the female tribute Nevaeh volunteers for? I'm also keeping track of sponsor points. **

**Apart from the question, I'm curious on your opinions on these tributes. How have your opinions changed from the blog to seeing them legitimately being written, if they have at all? Predicted Placements?**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	7. Chapter 7 — District 2 Reaping

"I get it; you apologized. Now, can we please move on?"

* * *

 **Roland Blackstone, 18**

 **District 2 Tribute**

Smoothing out his hair in the mirror, Roland prepared himself for the upcoming social. The Volunteer spot for males was his already; hence, his family had hosted a huge party in his honor. He made sure his tuxedo was crisp and his tie was impeccably straight; making a bad impression on anyone had consequences.

"Hey, that tuxedo will look better with a bow tie."

Using the reflection of the mirror, Roland eyed his younger brother, Remus. _Perhaps._ He remained silent, acknowledging his presence with a head nod, and picked a red bow tie to go with his black tuxedo. Fitting it correctly, he examined himself and nodded an affirmation.

"Thank you, Remus." He hated throwing away words in private situations like these, preferring deep thoughts, especially with his younger brother, but his mother had raised him to become a polite boy, and habits like those weren't easily forgotten.

"Yeah, no problem."

They stood in comfortable silence for who knows how long, Roland busying himself with gelling his hair.

"Roland! It's time to greet the first guests; they're starting to arrive!" A shrill shout pierced through the peace and he recognized it instantly as his mother's voice.

He nodded towards his brother in an unspoken gesture that he was about to leave the room, which Remus returned, and Roland descended the stairs, pasting a smile on his face for the guests.

"Good afternoon, Mother."

"Good afternoon to you as well," she replied. "It's exactly two o' clock; that's the time I put on the invitations. We have four hours before the Reaping at six o' clock."

He nodded gravely at her words in response.

 _Ding!_

"I've got it!" he answered when the doorbell rang. _The first guests—wonder who they'll be._ His expression went from stoic to a bright smile prepared to welcome and receive.

Opening the door, his originally faked smile turned genuine as he saw Alexis, Matt, and Styx, his best friends, standing there together. "Good afternoon, and welcome to the Blackstone household."

As his mother left with an _I'll-leave-you-alone-with-your-friends_ expression, he relaxed and dropped the formalities. To anyone else, he wouldn't have changed anything, but they were his best friends, and he didn't worry about having to present his "best self" to them. "Hi everyone, nice to see you again."

A chorus of "you too"s rose up from his three best friends.

"Congratulations on the Volunteer spot, Roland—you must have put so much work into it," Styx said.

 _I have, indeed._ "Thank you for your compliment, Styx, but I must say, getting the spot is one thing, Victory is another."

"Still, with your dedication and patience, I'm sure you'll be back soon."

"Aw, thanks," he replied, unsure of what else to say that didn't involve the fact that he had to do the immoral act of killing children.

Thankfully, the doorbell rang again; it almost never got awkward with his friends, but he didn't want to upset them with throwaway comments like the ones he used for the regular public.

More people filtered through the door and into the large dining hall, who he all greeted with the same brightness and patience he had with people. As the guests stopped coming in at last, his parents offered a toast and the party began.

Songs were played, and people went throughout the hall, some dancing, some chatting, Roland flitting from group to group with small talk, engaging everyone in conversation.

"Hey, Roland, you've been skippin' us?" He heard a lighthearted tone coming from the center of the room, slightly left of where he was.

"Valerie, sis!" Roland recognized the voice and purposefully walked over to her group. "And nope, I've just been rotating around the room, and y'all are in the center, so it's obviously going to take more time to get to here, ya know? And hey Diana, hey Minerva."

They all stopped their chatting to look at him. "So, how are you all?"

"We're great," Valerie spoke for the group. "Just talkin' a little bit about the politics nowadays, the Capitol and the Games, with your volunteering so soon."

"You all gossiping about me?" he joked.

Diana, his other big sister, looked shocked. "No, we'd never, Roland! We didn't mean it like that, it just came up, with it being your party and all."

"Come on, it was just a joke, lighten up..." he tried, to no avail. Changing the subject and keeping his blunder in mind for later advice, he replied after a brief silence, "So, what do you all think? Like, about the Capitol and stuff?"

Said Minerva, politically correct to a fault, "The Capitol is doing a brilliant job of running Panem with a firm hand and intolerance towards rebellion, especially in the ratty outer districts."

"Yeah, some outer districts have, in fact, worked their way into this. Panem is a brilliant nation dedicated to helping the able and hard-working to achieve their dreams; however, some people just don't work hard enough, unfortunately. But you work amazingly hard, of course," Diana, Minerva's twin, said. "I admire your persistence and effort. And as Father says, 'The diligent and determined will be the ones rewarded.'"

"I don't really have any political beliefs; that's why I wanted to hear y'all's," Valerie said. "How about you, Roland?"

"Well, I'm pro-Capitol, of course. They're—as Diana and Minerva said—supportive of our goals and we, the hard-working ones, will be rewarded. But as for the Hunger Games, I feel like killing children is just wrong, if you know what I mean. I've probably told y'all a bunch a times before this but—"

He stopped mid-sentence as the shock hit his older siblings.

"You mean, you didn't want to train? Roland, if you aren't willing to do this, you won't win..." Valerie drifted off, realizing what she said was wrong as Minerva stepped on her foot. "Sorry, I'm trying to stop being so impulsive all the time. You know I didn't mean that..."

It hurt, but the important thing was to shake it off and not dwell on such negative thoughts. He'd be able to kill in the Games—it was just that he didn't like to and how he absolutely had to Volunteer to uphold the family name.

It was always like this. His many siblings were all either younger or older than him, leaving him as the middle child, forgotten in the midst of all the fancy achievements and statuses the others, successful in their jobs, got. He was just that guy in the middle who made hurtful comments and put up extroverted facades to hide the true deep thoughtful person he was within.

 _Stop dwelling on your inside thoughts. Other people and family are what matters—you have to console them you'll come back._ He shook the negative and self-depreciating comments on himself away and said, "Guys, don't worry. I'll kill when I have to, and I can succeed with hard work." Hard work had become a mantra. "I'll be back before you know it!"

"We know you will," Diana responded, and as Matt, his boyfriend, called him from the other side of the hall, she added, "I presume you must continue your rounds?"

"Yep, see you all later!"

Roland found Matt in the chaos of the party, who coaxed Roland's previous emotions and thoughts out of him with legendary skill and reassured his doubts that he wouldn't be able to kill when it came to it.

* * *

"'Good' and 'evil' are mere concepts created to draw us in; to stop us from becoming our own selves. Screw them."

* * *

 **Sarisa Karlen, 18**

 **District 2 Tribute**

Even though her Volunteer spot for later that day was granted, Sarisa still found herself accepting the second-place contender's challenge in the ring. She'd just had an overall terrible week; she knew she'd gotten the thirty-seventh question wrong on her final the second she turned it in despite her checking, and it may have brought down her perfect 100 in math. To add insult to injury, when scores were put up, everyone saw her less-than-one-hundred score and she heard the gossip.

 _Let's just say the louder ones were... silenced,_ she thought with a smirk of satisfaction. Fighting was one of her favorite hobbies and always helped when she was in a vengeful mood.

And earlier that day, she'd heard Ambrosia Argus telling her clique that she'd been deserving of the Volunteer spot—and that Sarisa wasn't a valid contender. Sneaking away with that knowledge, Sarisa'd kept it in her head until this moment; she'd expected Ambrosia to challenge her again, and had been planning her fighting strategy since.

Despite her natural defensive reaction to Ambrosia's insults, Sarisa managed to focus on the battle at hand, shunting the thoughts to the side. They wouldn't help her in a fight—it was always cleaner to stay level-headed, cool, and collected. She grabbed her slightly blunted sword from her sheath with the ever-satisfying sound of metal on leather and faced Ambrosia.

The other girl stood a mere 5 feet, 8 inches to her six feet, one inch, but Sarisa knew there was more to her than that—she wouldn't have made it this far in the Academy otherwise. However, most female trainees were the ones who got in via flirting with officials, who never learned how to use a weapon; she would admit silently, with her protesting pride, that Ambrosia was not one of those girls, despite her associating with them.

Associating with anyone was a terrible idea. Other people held her down, never did anything properly, and prevented her from entering her "calm space" where she got all her best ideas and plans. And this girl before her had tried sassing her behind her back, thinking she wouldn't hear. _No such luck_.

Sarisa started processing possible plans and layouts for how she was going to proceed, her mind whirling with thoughts and strategies. She finalized it in a matter of seconds, and sliced upwards at Ambrosia's face, who raised her own sword to block it, like she thought.

However, Sarisa had decided to do something different; feign a strike up and use her momentum to bring it back down at Ambrosia's chest, who hadn't realized her tactic. _Gotcha._

The blow stunned Ambrosia, who leapt back in surprise, sword pointing straight at her. Sarisa could have just ended the fight there with a sidestroke and quick slash downwards again, but decided not to. _She deserves this punishment; I'll tire her out and she'll feel how it's like to be humiliated, but this one will be in front of everyone else._ It was lower than Academy standards and for sure would have been counted as an "evil move" or whatever they called them nowadays, but Sarisa didn't care. All that was in her mind was payback for her wounded pride, and she would get that payback, even if it costed her.

Sarisa advanced upon the other girl and played with her like a cat would a mouse, faking lunges and stabs at the other girl's chest with her long arms and reach. She would win, and she would do it gracefully, shattering the other girl's pride. Remaining calm, she parried a weak thrust and retaliated with her own stronger one, sending jarring movements of shock up Ambrosia's blade, despite the blunted swords they were playing with.

 _Time to do some actual damage,_ she thought. Playing was fun and all that, but the audience gathered was evidently getting bored. Regardless of the fact that their swords weren't sharpened nor wouldn't slice cleanly through flesh, Sarisa went for the offensive knock-back strategy, striking at Ambrosia's joints with the flatter sides of the sword. Ambrosia's body almost everyone else at the Academy envied would be black and green and purple days after and Sarisa's wounded pride was now sated.

"Do you surrender?" she asked, to further taunt her.

"Never," Ambrosia responded, hate in her eyes despite the overcoming pain, and flashed her sword again, crashing it into Sarisa. To only meet her own sword, the force of Ambrosia's blow snapping the metal of Sarisa's in half but sending the other girl's flying into the wall, inches above an innocent bystander's head.

"Now, you will surrender."

"Hell, no!"

Sarisa couldn't help herself—she threw a powerful punch towards the other girl's head, and there was an audible _clunk_ when fist met skull, and Ambrosia seemed to black out. She'd came up with multiple ways her plan could end, and this punch was one of them, however unlikely it may have been if she had been someone else.

She left the ring without a last glance towards Ambrosia; she didn't care.

There were still a few more hours until the Reaping, so she felt clear to sit down in a corner, replaying the fight to herself, apart from all the other trainees. A soft hand then grabbed her wrist, and Sarisa quickly turned, fist poised to strike the person who had invaded her personal space, when she stopped.

 _Oh._ It was Sierra Lamille, her ex-girlfriend who had broken up with her to be with Collin. Raising an eyebrow, the gave a pointed look towards the girl. "There's a thing called personal space, and you're violating mine. Go away."

Sierra returned with a hurt expression. "Sarisa—I know you think you're a bad influence and whatnot, but—"

"I'm not hearing it. Why don't you run over to your boyfriend—who's it this time?—over there? Unless you want to get beat up as well?"

The other girl was rendered speechless, and Sarisa breathed an inside sigh of relief. It was over; her rage wouldn't overwhelm her self-control and though she had hardly any morality, she didn't want to hurt the girl. She was the daughter of the mayor, after all, and laying a hand on them wouldn't go unpunished. Sarisa thanked her logic and repressing of impulse.

Unwanting to listen to the whatever Sierra was going to say as she opened her mouth, Sarisa turned her back and strode through the Academy doors without a backwards look. She'd made up her mind, and that was that.

She started walking back and as she entered her family's house, her younger twin siblings, Clementine and Elliot, greeted her excitedly.

"Did you win? Are you the Volunteer?" they asked together expectedly.

"Well, what do you think? I'm _Sarisa Karlen_." she replied with a smirk. "Besides—I'm making sure you'll learn from the best."

Clementine squealed, as did Elliot, despite his attempts to remain "manly."

"When do we get to learn how to fight? Teach us now!" Clementine was bouncing eagerly.

"Please?!" entered Elliot to put on a facade of politeness and self-restraint; however, anyone could have told that they were both uncontrollably excited.

Footsteps sounded, and the three of them turned to see Sarisa's father, Sebastian. "Children, calm down. You'll learn when it's time—Sarisa and I will both teach you soon—when she comes back," he added.

"Seriously? Thank you so much, Dad and Sis."

"No problem, guys; it's our pleasure. Now, Sarisa, you have to get dressed for the Reaping soon—we have your outfit ready, and one for when you come back as well."

She smiled out of gratitude, a rare occurrence. "Can't wait to see the latter."

* * *

"Winning the Games was ninety-nine percent mental. Physical strength did little good."

* * *

 **Sapentia Papirius, 24**

 **District 2 Female Mentor**

In a crisp blouse and dress pants, Sapentia was more formally dressed than the escort and a few other mentors, especially the younger ones. But after all, she was the most recent Victor and she needed to make a good, solid, and capable impression.

Tybrus, at the projector, pressed a button and the obligatory video showing of the Capitol and their crushing of the rebellion came up. _Nearly half of that stuff was staged,_ she thought, rolling her eyes at the way the citizens in the crowd cheered the fake news on. As the video came to a close, the mayor made a speech and the Reaping began.

"Our first tribute will be..." the escort's hand rustled around the males' bowl, finally settling on one.

 _I don't get why he took a long time; it's not like there will be no Volunteers_ , she thought, not impatiently, just noting.

"Regalus Lorde!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" A deep and smooth masculine voice arose out of the crowd, cold and confident but somehow still energetic and bouncy as the applause rang loudly. It painted a pre-tribute picture in her mind: a smiling muscular guy who sort of seemed jumpy, almost. And as the Volunteer emerged from the rows, Sapentia found her perception almost right.

"What is your name, Sir?"

"Roland Blackstone," he replied, poised and sure of himself. Sapentia noted his lean muscles and toned figure, judging him for his bulk. She was thankful he was Tybrus's tribute—she didn't think that the physically-oriented ones were her forte and wished they could just choose mentors to fit the tribute instead. But there was that stupid mentor-to-gender rule.

"And is there anything you'd like to say before you're off into the arena?"

"Yes, thank you," he said, as the escort passed him the microphone. "I'd just like to say that I've worked for this spot and I will come back to bring glory to District Two and the Blackstone family. Thank you to all the trainers who chose me, and thank you to all who supported me. See you all in a couple weeks."

"Thank you, Roland. Now, on to the females!" the escort

"Teresa Van Houten!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" a calm voice called from the crowd.

 _My tribute,_ she thought. _Hopefully as collected on the inside as she comes off like now._

A blonde-haired girl slowly and carefully but not unconfidently, ambled up to the stage. Her applause was significantly less than Roland's, but now that she thought of it, Sapentia knew the Blackstone family; they were famous throughout the district for having an almost monopoly on the architectural business, and they'd thrown a large party (to which she wasn't invited) a few hours before. Or perhaps it was something else contributing to that as well. Murmurs spread through the crowd as well.

"My name is Sarisa Karlen, I'm eighteen years old, and I will be our district's next Victor." Her voice was strict and commanding, her features were sharp, and she had a smirk on her face.

"Ah, thank you, Sarisa. Is there anything you'd like to say? Perhaps how you've came so far?"

"Yes—all my life, I've been a nobody in this district. Training has been my way of pushing the limits of what I can do, and for me to find a place within. When I win the Hunger Games, I'll finally have a place, and you all will finally know who I really am."

"Thank you as well, Sarisa. And with that, ends the Reaping. Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds _ever_ be in your favor!"

* * *

 **A/N: Sorry for not sticking to the schedule—I was busy with competition and a Bat Mitzvah. I also struggled writing conversations because, well, I suck at conversation (even in real life), but I'm getting advice from one of my best friends, who's an extrovert, so hopefully it'll improve. If any of you have tips in general as well, I'm open to all of them and greatly thankful. :)**

 **Apart from that, you may have noticed that I've taken out the song lyrics. Apparently, it's against the fanfiction rules. So I've added quotes I came up with that I feel represents the tribute/mentor.**

 **And** **I also realized too late that I did not insert a "Weapon of Choice" section in the tribute form. My apologies for that; if you had a specific weapon of choice in mind for your tribute, please PM me with it. Otherwise, I'll just choose one for them based off realistic-ness for their build.**

 **QOTC (question of the chapter): What were Roland and his sisters talking about at the party?**

 **How did you like this chapter, and what did you think of the tributes? Predicted placements? Charts are bae ;)**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	8. Chapter 8 — District 3 Reaping

"All my life, I've been the forgotten one. Let's see how difficultly I can be forgotten when I take out all the Careers."

* * *

 **Mason Banks, 18**

 **District 3 Tribute**

 _I'm doing this for myself and no one else._

Mason tousled his bronze hair confidently in front of the mirror, smirking to himself and whistling a tune.

He was getting ready for the Reaping later that day and had his plan already laid out. No longer would he be the forgotten son, the "ungifted one," even lower than Jeff, at thirteen. He would have the glory and bragging rights, be able to stare his parents in their faces and make them address him as Victor. Victory would be sweet, both winning and the aftermath.

Sure, he loved Jeff; he was one of the few people who could understand him and his situation, and who comforted him, along with Faith. But though he'd always been older, Mason was never particularly good with technology, or at least, not as good as Jeff, and that's what mattered.

 _Well, speak of the devil._ Jeff entered the room. _Ugh, stop thinking like that, Mason! Jeff's your brother, innocent and not to blame. He's not the devil; your parents are!_

 _Ugh, it's just a saying,_ the other side of him thought. _What happened to typical laid-back Mason?_

His inner conflict was ended and "laid-back Mason" was left hanging as Jeff said, "Hey bro."

"Hi, Jeff. What's up?"

His brother smirked playfully. "The ceiling, of course!"

Mason face-palmed, keeping the mood in the room light and lively. "I've gotta stop askin' you that question and stick to a 'How are you,' don't I?" He paused. "So, how are you?"

"I'm great, you? Please don't tell you you're still gonna volunteer..."

"Well, in that case, I'll just answer the first question. I'm good."

"But Mason, there's an, um," Jeff thought for a second, "about 95.83 percent chance you won't come back. I don't want to take that chance, bro!"

"It's all right. You know me—I'm pretty strong and have common sense. I should be fine. Chill. The Careers ain't got nothin' on me."

Jeff only stared in astonishment. "They're trained Careers, Mason! Do you hear me? Trained." He drew the last word out, emphasizing it. "And you know Mother and Father don't tolerate what they call 'peasant slang.' Stop using ain't. It ain't right." Jeff winked, a sign he was siding with Mason even though he was the one to inform him.

Mason ignored the last part of Jeff's comment and his brotherly, teasing tone. "Jeff." His voice was like hard steel. "Don't you _dare_ go all 'oh poor baby Mason' on me; I know what I'm doing, and I intend to do it well. Don't worry, I'll be back." It took every ounce of self-control he had not to snap at Jeff and to speak in that clipped tone instead of burning out with anger.

His brother looked, pitying him and started to leave the room. "Just... be careful out there. Don't do anything stupid, please." He left without a second glance, footsteps silent on the plush maroon carpet.

Mason gazed at his reflection in the mirror, face stoic and blank, hiding his emotions from the outside world, even if he was the only one in the room. People were always watching, and one day, someone would break into that shell of his and find out his weaknesses, exploiting them to their advantage.

He'd worked so hard to be uncaring and inconsiderate, shunned everyone away, only to be unable to filter out Faith and Jeff. Faith, he could blame his masculine hormones, but Jeff!

At thirteen, and already the better child, in his parents' eyes. A technology wiz, math genius, and overall better at what he did than Mason. He should've hated Jeff, yet he was so protective of his younger brother.

 _Shut out of it. I shouldn't hate Jeff; he's my blood and kin. He's my sibling._

Why were feelings and emotions so complicated?

Blinking himself out of the temporary daydream he was in, Mason squared his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and strode down the stairs like a true Volunteer and Victor.

"Mason, I expected better work than this from you!" The shrill piercing of his mother's voice broke the calm and confident aura he was carrying. "You'll have to fix problem nineteen, which is one of the easiest there!" She broke off the shout, muttering under her breath, but Mason could still hear. "Why did our first child have to be so much trouble? I'm so glad we had Jeff five years after; I never would've stood it otherwise."

Almost flinching, but managing to keep his feelings in check, Mason thought it better to escape the house and walk the few blocks to Faith's. He knew the entire path by heart and hoped one day to stroll down the road, fancy suit and tie, flowers and ring in hand, as a Victor.

Knocking, Mason plastered a laid-back and relaxed smile on his face, somehow conveying confidence all along.

"Hey, Faith," he said to the lithe figure who pulled open the door, a smile lighting up his face. "How are you?"

"Hi Mason, I'm good. I've just finished preparing for the Reaping, so good timing. You?" Her voice was sweet and lively, reminding him of the euphoria he found when with nature.

"I'm great."

"Here, why don't you come in; my parents are in the yard out back."

"Right, cool, thanks." Mason blushed awkwardly. Though he and Faith were the best of friends, he still barely knew how to bring up a sensitive topic. "Um so I just wanted to tell you... I'm volunteering today."

"YOU'RE _WHAT_?!" Faith exploded, so different from the mellow, peaceful, and friendly Faith that he flinched backwards, knocking over a vase of flowers which he, as suavely as he could manage, flipped it right-side up again.

"I'm volunteering. Today. For the Hunger Games."

Faith cocked her head to the side and examined him in the way she often did. "The prefrontal cortex is not fully developed until about age twenty-five," she muttered underneath her breath. Raising her voice to a normal conversation's level, she asked, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he tried to play it off like it was nothing, well knowing the weight of his situation.

"Mason, I've known you almost all my life and we've been friends since forever. Please, this decision could ruin your entire future! You could _die_."

"Calm down, dya really think anyone's gonna kill me?"

"Well I don't know," she hesitated.

He sighed resignedly. "Just say it..."

"It's really bad and it's gonna sting. You'll hate me for it."

"Faith, I could never hate you. You're my best friend and so much more..." he trailed off. "If there's something I should know, I'd like to have it in mind before I enter the arena, please."

"Whatever happened to how 'laid-back Mason'? Broski, just imagine your future... There's a chance you'll be killed, and the chance you'll win isn't enough to make me agree with your decision. I love you—as a friend," she added, and Mason's heart dropped, "and I truly care for you and don't want you to take _any_ chances."

"I wish that was true—that not taking chances would be optimal for life. But sometimes, you gotta take them, you know? I mean like, you've met Jeff. He's da bomb. But my parents think so too. Like, I have to earn respect somehow, as well as my place in life, right? And this is how, ya know?"

"I know you too well—when you've made a decision, you stick to it no matter what. Ah, typical 'stubborn Mason,'" she joked. "But you're brave, you're strong, you're street-smart; you'll make it back, I believe in you."

He shifted gears, back to his 'cocky Mason' face, comfortable in his facade, knowing that Faith wouldn't try to stop him by doing something brash, not that she ever was brash. "I know I'll make it back, belief or not."

The Reaping bell rang.

"So, see you there, then. Be proud; you're talking to the future Victor."

* * *

"And the great Arachne succeeds once more! She is unstoppable!"

* * *

 **Arachne Tylante, 14**

 **District 3 Tribute**

The room was lit by the faint glow of blue light, radiating from the computer screen. Arachne Tylante stared at that screen as if her sheer concentration would make the deal work. Her customer was being difficult tonight—didn't they know that two ounces of precious cocaine were, indeed, worth five thousand Nemians? Yet they were still trying to bargain. _Stupid._

And it was taking too long. Despite her developing skills and tendencies to never follow deadlines and time constraints, even Arachne would admit that. The longer she spent on the dark web, the greater the chance someone would track the base down, and Antarctica perhaps would even scream at her. Arachne's plans didn't even expect it to take this long; it was supposed to be a quick and easy in-and-out. She hadn't even set in her second firewall for maximum security, which she had programmed to be compatible with her first.

The only sound in the room came from the clicking of keyboard keys and the occasional clicking of the mouse. She liked the almost absolute silence; it allowed her to concentrate fully and proceed at her own pace, to control her own emotions and what she was feeling. She worked well under pressure, but that didn't mean that she worked _under_ pressure. She just found her own way around it and ignored the pressure.

Unfortunately, that didn't do her any good.

Typing in through the rigged private chat system, a banned mechanism in the districts of Panem, but still a feature in the black market, thanks to her own website creating, she entered, _If you don't want to pay for the cocaine, you won't get it. Final._

The customer hastily replied with, _F_ _ine; the deal is the deal._ , and Arachne smirked.

"Arachne has outwitted all the customers and Capitol hackers! Mwahahahaha!" she laughed evilly, relishing in the moment.

After her loud laughing diminished, the room fell into silence once again, until loud knocking came from the door.

"Arachne does not allow visitors during working hours," she said.

"It's Antarctica!"

 _Well, then._ She knew that her adoptive mother wouldn't have knocked so rudely if not for an emergency, so she let her in decisively, feeling her awkward rolls of fat on her belly flatten out as she got up from slouching in front of the screen.

"Well, what do you want at this hour? You should know better than to not bother me."

"And you should know better than not to refuse me when I come in. I am your mom, and if that doesn't convince you, I am your boss, and you don't speak to the higher-ups like that, Arachne," Antarctica replied sternly, but Arachne could see the hard lines of her mouth curve slightly upwards in a smile.

"And what if I were dealing in a particularly dangerous situation?"

"Just drop it. It's not getting us anywhere, and something's up; something important."

"Arachne the Great has fended off Antarctica with ease! She has succeeded once more! What an amazing performa—"

"Will. You. Please. Be. Quiet. And. Listen?!" Antarctica's voice came out in short and forced clips, and Arachne hid another smirk. "If you think you've succeeded, then why have our firewalls just been broken? They have found our IP."

Arachne felt a chill go through her. Their IP address was well hidden; she'd been one of the people to personally see it set up and the person to create the firewalls, and Arachne never failed.

Yet she somehow still kept her voice calm and collected, distancing herself in the way she often did while around unfamiliar people; it wasn't like her to do it now. Her brain connected the dots. The customer was stalling for time. No one would refuse that deal—it was way below the price and her corner of the market was the relatively safest.

Keeping to herself and trying to form the words right in her mind as to force the best front, she said after some time, "The customer earlier. They were against us."

"Which customer? It's always busier with the Reaping tomorrow morning and last-minute gamblers putting in their last bets for the Reaped. I don't have the time to examine the files; what were you dealing to him?"

"Some cocaine. It was an amazing deal and he f—ing tried to _bargain_ with me." She then added, "That's how I found out."

"Don't be hasty; we all know how proud you are of your accomplishments, Arachne. But it may not mean anything."

Debating the pros and cons of whether not to press the topic further, Arachne settled on doing it. "I have a plan we—I—can carry out. I'll examine the code and trace his IP address, and I can launch a malware attack on his computer system. It's a counterattack and I'll be able to pull it off."

"Even though we're not sure he's got it for bad intent, we have a plan, and seriously, who cares? Being 'evil' is better anyway."

"There are no constraints to morals," Arachne added in.

"Mwahahahaha!" They laughed evilly together.

 _Beep. Beep._

Her computer, in the corner, had a blinking red light on the top where the camera was.

"Turn around, Arachne! Shield yourself!"

As she bit back a sassy reply, a bright flash lit the room.

 _Click!_

Arachne ducked too late, heart racing.

She calmed her high heart rate down to a reasonable level and evened out her breathing, realizing the full implications. They had _pictures_ of her and they'd easily scan the Capitol database to find her full name. It was even worse than them receiving her IP.

Regaining her reasonability, Arachne stalked over to the computer, aware of Antarctica leaving and walking briskly down the hall, likely allowing Arachne to do her work alone.

It wasn't overrun by any malware or viruses, which she thought was weird. _If I had the chance, I'd definitely put a scrambler or mess up the systems. But perhaps 'good' people have morals which don't allow them to do that. Or maybe he was trying to be sneaky._

She might have said all that to her mother and left the adult figure in authority to create a plan, but Arachne wasn't that type of person. No, she liked keeping things to herself and being independent; she worked best by herself and at her own pace. And besides, hardly anyone else was a night person around there.

She focused her enigmatic gaze on the computer screen and typed her way past dawn, finishing the attack and launching it after noon the next day, taking her a total of eighteen hours.

Arachne wasn't a hacker; she'd just adapted a common program The Market often used to blackmail people and sent it to that IP, a common enough transaction she was used to doing with how trading went. But she was still tired, not wanting herself to get high on the adrenaline rush and therefore, antsy.

Groaning and getting up from the chair—pulling an all-nighter wasn't unusual, but how she longed to not have to do anything in the morning and instead go to sleep—Arachne pulled on a black sweatshirt and pants, preparing herself for the Reaping and curious about the success of her program.

* * *

 **Fiasco Vis, 23**

 **District Three Male Mentor**

 _And here I am again, still being forced to mentor._ Fiasco absolutely hated mentoring and even his "there's something wrong with me; I can't function properly" scheme didn't work to get him out of it. It exempted him from the brutal trade of Victors for wealthy Capitol citizens and perhaps President Regalus himself to, well, he didn't even want to think about what happened to them.

Fiasco had mastered the art of making his eyes glazed and unfocused many years ago, and used that same trick now. It was surprising what people said before someone they thought was incapable of listening or even understanding what they were talking about. He'd even heard classified information this way.

 _People these days,_ he thought with a resigned sigh. The information was worth the beating and verbal abuse he sustained with his "physical incapabilities." He'd gotten so used to the crap people spoke about him and he had developed a thick skin; no one knew the real him anyway, and the tributes he told because he was to mentor them all died. In fact, it would have been strange if one of his tributes actually won, despite all the effort he put in behind the scenes. They wouldn't be much sponsor magnets, however.

"AAAAAND GOOD EVENING, EVERYONE!" the escort boomed, startling him internally, but Fiasco didn't show external emotion. He made sure to drool a little bit onto his collared shirt, playing his part. "I'm ALANNA LACROIX and I'm this year's escort for District Three! Remember that name, ALANNA LACROIX, and if you could vote me for the 'best escort of the year award,' that would be terrrrrrrific!"

If he didn't have to play this up, Fiasco would have raised an eyebrow. Didn't she know that citizens were allowed limited access of internet sites, and the ones who did have internet in District Three would have been few, as it was crazy expensive and all their movements would have been traced if they didn't have firewalls set up. That was why either Two or One always won the awards despite the quality of the escorts; more people in those districts had internet, and the citizens had much more district pride anyway.

He rolled his head back onto his chair's back, to the audience, probably insane or just disgusting; to himself, a necessary movement to allow him a clear view of Annala Lakeroll or whatever her name was—he'd already forgotten, and it wasn't important. It was a bad move, however, because the speaker system suddenly let out a shrill piercing sound as the escort walked in front of a different speaker.

"Sorry, sorry!" she exclaimed as the citizens covered their ears and Fiasco's head jerked back in surprise. "Well, why don't we move on to the lovely male tribute!

"And his name is... Jacob Balt!"

"I, Mason Banks, volunteer as tribute!" _Oh s—._ He had a Volunteer. Hopefully he wasn't too cocky.

"Hey, I'm Mason Banks," he said into the escort's microphone when he finally reached the stage after taking his time to walk down the aisle.

She snatched the microphone back as Mason protested. "I'm allowed to say my last words to the audience, you know." _A whiner, even worse._ He grabbed it back. "I volunteered because I can, and I'll be your next Victor, District Three! We haven't had one in years, and well, it's that guy," he pointed to Fiasco.

The escort, obviously affronted, plucked the microphone out of Mason's hands and walked over to the girls' bowl, making it clear she had nothing to do with that Volunteer. She pulled one off the very top, flipped it over, which Fiasco thought was strange because it appeared to have writing on the first side anyway, and read the name.

"Arachne Tylante!"

A girl came out of the fourteen-year-old section and Fiasco tilted his head down to look at her. She carried herself with an enigmatic aura and her black clothing conveyed the same. Despite the many eyes on her, she seemed to sense Fiasco watching and looked up at him on stage, her eyes meeting his. As he dropped his eyelids in surprise, trying to keep his part up, she smirked in— _what was that? Delight? Satisfaction? Perhaps even_ knowing _?_

"So that wraps up the Reaping—have a nice day and may the odds ever be in your favour!" It was clear the escort didn't like Mason or Arachne, but was trying to keep it off her face to win the award.

 _What a try-hard._

* * *

 **A/N: And that concludes District Three's Reaping! Don't take Fiasco's comments personally as creators; he hates his tributes because he's got to mentor them.**

 **And yeah, I don't know anything about firewalls, IP addresses, and tech, but thankfully, Google knows all! I did use some sketchy sites, however, so just go with the flow. It's a story and I'm not a pro. Also, I'd like to thank Caleb for helping me with some dialogue tips and stuff; he's amazing and check him out at IVolunteerAsAuthor.**

 **This chapter was a little longer because I had to get Fiasco's section in there or else y'all would have been wondering later on ;). Don't worry, the tribute introductions are all about the same length, give or take fifty or so words. I'll also add the tributes' songs to the blog later today!**

 **QOTC: What did Fiasco think Alanna Lacroix's name was?**

 **Also, what did y'all think of this chapter and these tributes? Predicted placements?**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	9. Chapter 9 — District 4 Reaping

"I want to Volunteer, and that's how it'll be."

* * *

 **Tiburon Chen, 18**

 **District Four Tribute**

"Hey, bros, what's up?"

Tiburon, overhearing a familiar voice, sidled over to the group and added in jokingly to the speaker, "Everything, you're short."

"Ha, good one. Can't say I haven't heard that one before, though." Delta slapped Tiburon on the back nevertheless, and a few of the other boys fist-bumped him. "Yeah, so you going to Volunteer today? You're on top, right?"

"You're two ages younger—you should know who's highest," he teased. "But yeah, it's me. I'm probably gonna get challenged for the spot though and I'm dang ready for it!"

"You sure you can handle us all together?" another one of the 16-year-old boys challenged.

"Well, that wouldn't be a fair fight, huh?" Tiburon rolled his eyes. Though he was fairly sure they were messing with him, he absolutely detested whenever hard work and practice were overturned to an "easy way out" or something like that. Would some people really take a cheated win over a hard-fought but fair loss? More importantly, did they even believe in work ethics and did they realize how rewarding it was to have a legitimate win?

Sometimes, he doubted it.

The other 16-year-old's next words furthered his doubt. "It doesn't matter if it's a fair fight. There is no fair in the Hunger Games. We fight to _win_ , not to lose to morals, of all things." He even had the nerve to roll his eyes!

"I'll take you on. You wanna go?"

The other boy shrank back slightly, but with the encouragement and egging on of the other boys around him, he stepped into a ring on the side, Tiburon following.

"My bet's on Tiburon!" Delta shouted, and the majority agreed. "You better not lose, Volunteer—I'm putting in twenty!"

 _Do whatever you want. I'll do anything to win._ Despite his hatred of those who didn't believe in hard work and practice, Tiburon was sort of hypocritical on cheating. Being an obviously competitive person—who else would willingly enter into the Hunger Games if not to win?—he prized winning over everything. Even, perhaps, his morals and ideals.

The sound of fist on flesh and his vision flashing white for a second grounded him. It wasn't the time to ponder his morality. It was the time to win.

He blocked out the jeering of the other boys and retaliated with a firm right hook to that kid's head, who ducked, sending him spinning, fueled by his own momentum. Tiburon set himself and readied for another attack, his blood pumping with competition adrenaline.

As the other boy aimed a kick at him, he caught his leg and whirled him around, kneeing his stomach and knocking him down.

"Man down!" Delta shouted above the cheer. "3... 2... 1...

"DOWN!"

Tiburon's blood was pumping so fiercely he could barely make it out, his veins raging with energy. "Anyone else dare contest me? I'll take anyone!"

Three boys scrambled on top of the rope and into the ring, surrounding him as he frowned. "Hey, one at a time, guys. The floor won't have any more room for your bodies if I continue beating y'all into the ground at this rate." Tiburon gestured to the previous challenger's figure on the rubber, which was then promptly dragged out of the ring by a few Academy trainers.

"Whatever. In the Hunger Games, tributes may gang up against you and it won't be one-on-one," the tallest of the three challenged as a crowd began to gather.

"Yeah, take them all on! Unless you're not good enough?" A deep rose up from the crowd, and Tiburon felt his face heat up.

He amended his previous statement, saying, "Fine, whatever. I'm the Volunteer, after all, and I'll easily beat y'all."

They came to him like bees to nectar, and his head spun. Rising up to the challenge like he always did, however, Tiburon responded to it, loving the thrill and intensity of a competitive fight. He felt an elbow in his stomach, then a knee to his chin as he crumpled, mentally protesting.

He _couldn't_ lose, absolutely not.

Yet the fight wasn't on his side. He was down, down on the dirtied rubber of the ring's floor. Looking around in helplessness, he caught a familiar pair of eyes at the edge of the crowd. _Delphine._ But there wasn't anything she could do.

"Three... Two... O—"

Tiburon mustered his last bits of strength and shot up from under a specifically bulky boy. Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed a black shadow flying towards him, and caught what he thought was the leg of another one of the boys attempting a jump kick. It was a trident, lightly blunted, enough to bruise. _Definitely not a boy._

 _But I can't use this! That would be cheating..._

Instinct and his ever-present desire to win took over as one of the real boys ran at him. Tiburon knocked him away with an easy swipe, sending him crashing out of the ring.

"ONE DOWN!"

 _Two more left._

They flanked him from both sides, but their hand-to-hand combat, while good, was slightly messy and tired, and definitely no match for his weapon.

With great skill he'd mastered from years of practice, he lightly jabbed the other ones, not wanting to hurt them and only wishing to win. Though it was two-to-one, he had the advantage with the trident; however, by now, some of the bystanders had started protesting how unfair it was that he had a trident and they had nothing.

Breathing hard, Tiburon disregarded the comments and focused on the only reward. Winning. With his mind on the goal, it came easily, his body moving fluidly from years of practice.

Knocking the other two boys down and out of the ring, Delta then shouted, "Winner, TIBURON! Our designated Volunteer for today!"

His panting figure showed the crowd an elated but fatigued smile, and he gave Delphine, at the edge of the crowd once again, a thumbs' up.

He slid out from under the ring's ropes and went to talk to his sister, breathing still labored. "Hey, Delphine, how's it going?"

"I'm doing great, thanks for asking, bro. I know you want to ask me something, spit it out."

"Yeah right, so you probably know already, but the trident."

She smirked. "You wouldn't have won without my help, admit it. But I tossed it to you because when I win my fight today, we'll finally see who's better. I already know—it's gonna be me."

"The absolute fact that you have to fight for your spot the morning before the Games pretty much says it all. That your skill level is significantly lower than mine—my spot is guaranteed."

"Hi, guys!" a new voice joined the twins, and as Tiburon glanced over, he noticed that it was Estrella, his girlfriend. "How are you two today?"

"I'm good," Delphine replied.

"I'm doing amazing, Estrella, how about you?" He gave her a small kiss on the cheek while she giggled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Delphine slipping away from the conversation silently and would have called her back if not for his knowledge that she always felt uncomfortable in these situations.

"Any day with you is a fantastic one," she responded smoothly, but truthfully, a bright smile lighting up her features. "I can't believe you're Volunteering today—to think, I'll be married to a Victor!"

"And I'll be married to an awesome person," he said, getting slightly bored of the conversation. "Hey, what's Delta doing over there?"

* * *

"Being too ambitious is never a thing."

* * *

 **Delphine Chen, 18**

 **District Four Tribute**

She looked at Tiburon giving Estrella a longer-than-necessary kiss with longing and envy. Why couldn't she be that social and fluttery? Delphine slipped away silently.

"Finalists Delphine and Laua, please advance to the ring," a voice called over the announcement speaker, and she slipped away, Tiburon and Estrella stuck in their own worlds.

 _This is my chance and I'll take it willingly,_ she thought. _Laua won't stand a chance._ Sure, the number one spot was tied between them, but Laua wasn't as competitive as she was, and definitely not willing to do anything to win like herself.

Perhaps the Hunger Games were a huge risk, but she could handle it. The Games were the only way to prove herself to her brother that she was just as capable, if not more so, as he was.

"Hey, Delphine!" Laua interrupted her thoughts with a cheerful wave.

Delphine ignored her. If she joined the conversation, too many things could go wrong, she calculated. Laua could get into her head like she most likely was trying to right now, she could be out of her "fighter mindset" and mess up in the fight, along with other things.

"You ready for the fight?" she persisted.

An idea came through Delphine's head like a lightbulb turning on. She was so ready to up her chances in the fight and take that win easily. "What fight? I'm gonna beat you up so hard that it's not going to count as a fight; it's gonna be murder."

"Um... all right, then..." Laua said, trying to regain her composure. She was clearly unnerved, but to her credit, came back with another line. "You'll die as well for it. After all, you're one of those 'common folk.' It's a three hundred thousand Nemians' penalty _and_ hanging if one of you maggots kill one of us." Her cheery nature was gone. "And I'm not sure if your family could even afford to pay up three hundred thousand Nemians."

"Only three hundred thousand Nemians? That's less than a boat! Well, it just shows how little your life is worth. And I bet my family and I have worked so much harder in our lives than you and your lot," Delphine spat.

"Perhaps your family did, but you clearly haven't, you _cheater_!" Laua screamed, drawing the attention of a nearby trainer, who interfered.

"Woah, woah, woah, girls. Shut your mouths, stop arguing, and get inside the ring! We called you minutes ago and now we're behind schedule." When the two just continued to glare at each other, he added, "Hurry up!"

They snapped out of the staring contest and Delphine saw Laua smirk. _I'll show her in the ring._

Jumping over the ropes surrounding with ease, she readied herself in position. After years of practice training with the same group of people, Delphine already knew all their tactics and strategies and had trained herself to expect their next moves. Laua, she knew, used momentum too often, meaning she'd have to be careful with her kicks and punches—they'd be easily thrown away and Laua would gain the advantage.

Delphine settled on her old "strategy" of just letting her instincts do the work for her. Instincts being cheating and psyching out her opponent as a distraction, of course, but it was the easiest way to win.

Staying true to her methods, she shouted, "Hey Laua! You know what? I actually just realized this." Smiling viciously, Delphine continued after a pause of suspense. "Murder only counts if it's an accident."

She rushed the other girl, who appeared to be in a state of intense fear. Delphine had a reputation for being a cheater and not sticking to her morals in order to win, and she expected Laua to be thinking about those rumors. Well, not rumors, actually, as they were true.

An easy jab to Laua's stomach brought her down, and she put up a fight when Delphine tried to pin her arms and legs, throwing Delphine off her. Laua recovered like she usually did with a combination of punches, kicks, and jabs, aiming for her face and chest.

However, Delphine expected this move and ducked, rolling on the floor. She saw an opening when Laua's body weight shifted to pin her on the floor, but the only way to use the opening to her own advantage was with a banned move.

 _Screw it, there are no banned moves in the Hunger Games, and I don't lose._

The mere thought of losing shot a spark of fear within her and Delphine grabbed Laua's foot, pulling it out from underneath her, and used that energy to stand herself up onto Laua's chest.

As Laua's body thrashed around with the pressure, Delphine started counting. "ONE! TWO! THREE!"

She stepped off with a victorious smile, eyeing her brother and Estrella right outside the ring. "I told you I'd win."

The couple just stared at her with blank faces and she shrugged. It often happened when she tried starting conversation with other people, and she thought nothing of it except a little hurt inside. It was her _brother_ , for goodness' sakes! He was supposed to be the conversationalist, the one who could make anyone feel at ease, something she could never do, however hard she worked at it. Reyna was the only person she could actually have a good talk with, but she still often pushed her away. Sometimes, she wished she could have her brother's perfect life.

After a moment's silence, Tiburon finally replied, "Delphine... Do you value hard work or practice at all?" He grabbed Estrella and walked away silently, leaving Delphine herself in an uncomfortable position. For all her mastermindfulness, she was unable to foresee this reaction from him. Right after he had won a fight with a weapon. But Tiburon was Tiburon, stubborn and narrow-minded, as much as she loved him, and Delphine had to accept it was just his character.

"We will now be announcing the Volunteers for the fifty-seventh Annual Hunger Games."

She searched for the source of the noise, despite knowing that it was a loudspeaker, as a way to distract herself. Her eyes and attention were now fully focused on the black box.

"First, for the males." The speaker cleared their throat. "Tiburon Chen! Congratulations, young man. You were a promising candidate from the start, the perfect balance between practice and practicality. We see you going far. Please see Odysseus Calamry; he will be your mentor.

"The fight for the female spot was a tough one," he went on as Delphine's blood froze. _It_ has to _go to_ _me!_ "The team and I finally decided to, after much deliberation, go with Miss Laua—" Delphine didn't listen to the rest of his broadcast. It didn't matter. She hadn't gotten the spot. And Tiburon would go into the Games unchallenged and easily beat them all.

And how did Laua win? It wasn't fair; she had won the fight after all! Despite her common tendency to think things through before acting, her anger and ambitiousness overtook her. She stormed into the Academy Director's office, belonging to Scallia Leon, her anger sending tremors through the room.

"I would like my Volunteer spot back," she spat. The Director turned in her office chair, raising a cool eyebrow at her. The women held the staring contest before Delphine broke off and, after a moment's silence, added, "Please."

"There is no room for deliberation on the topic of the chosen Volunteer."

"If you send Laua into the Games, she'll die in the Bloodba—" Scallia cut her off with a look.

"I said, 'There is no room for deliberation on the topic of the chosen Volunteer.' Do not argue with me, Miss Chen."

Delphine burned with anger and frustration and left the room in a huff. Couldn't Leon see how she was so much better than Laua? Did she not realize that Delphine herself had _beaten_ Laua in the fight for the spot? It was so _stupid_.

 _I'm going to Volunteer later anyway, never mind the consequences._

And the first step towards her goal was to eliminate all other variables. The most central one being the designated Volunteer.

* * *

"Challenge my authority, and you will fall."

* * *

 **Isla Lagun, 24**

 **District Four Female Mentor**

Trying not to be embarrassed with Odysseus sitting next to her side, Isla Lagun, one of the more put-together of the Four mentors, stared at the escort with the intensity that only comes with wanting to ignore someone.

That certain someone being Odysseus once again.

"Good afternoon, everyone!" the escort said, receiving a chorus of "good afternoon"s back. "Welcome to the District Four Reaping, and today, we shall Reap future Victors." Apparently, Isla noted, he didn't realize that there was only one Victor. She shook her head in disgust at the logical inconsistencies.

"First up, the females!" he turned to the first bowl, muttering under his breath, "Because apparently equality and stuff, you know?" Then realizing his microphone was still turned on, he blushed scarlet and dug his hand into the bowl.

"Our lucky female tribute will be... Mare Nostra!"

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" someone from the audience screamed at the top of their lungs. Isla's eyes caught the movement of a hand bursting from the crowd.

 _And she is definitely_ not _Laua..._

The newcomer was a somewhat short female of Asian descent with a skinny but muscular body, very different from the round curves of muscle Laua had. _We have a rogue Volunteer here, don't we?_ Isla was quite surprised she didn't even hear Laua's voice—the typical protocol had the designated Volunteer volunteering as well, but Laua showed no sign of Volunteering.

And as Isla scanned the crowd expertly, she didn't see Laua at all. _That's strange._ She returned her attention to the escort, asking the Volunteer some questions.

"We have a Volunteer here! What is your name, young lady?"

"Delphine Chen," she responded confidently, and Isla felt a spark of recognition within her. _That girl._ She was the one who had beaten Laua in the last fight, using a banned move. Isla had heard she was always the weaker of the two twins, her twin being the male Volunteer. Her quick mind pieced the situation easily. _Well, s—._

"And why have you Volunteered this fine afternoon?"

"I'll finally show everyone that I am better than Tiburon, my twin, despite always having to be the underdog. Tiburon," she pointed somewhere in the crowd, presumably to her twin, "take this to heart. I'll make it way further in the Games than you ever will." _And, I was right. Naturally._

"Interesting," the escort mused, and moved on to the males' bowl. "Our male tribute for the Games shall be... Harry Waters!"

"I volunteer as tribute!" a male Isla supposed was Tiburon shouted.

 _Ooh, he's a looker,_ she joked to herself. If he won, he'd have to pay for that in the Capitol—she had experienced that and still did, firsthand.

When he got to the stage, the escort asked, "And I suppose you're this lovely young lady's twin brother, Tiburon?"

"That's right, I'm Tiburon Chen, and I'm ready to win these Games with the sweep of my hand!" As the audience waited for another line, he added, "So are you all Avoxes, because I just left you all _speechless!_ " The crowd laughed and Isla sighed as Odysseus burst into a weird sort of giggling.

"And that's Tiburon Chen, everyone! Thanks for being here tonight, and may the odds _ever_ be in your favor!"

* * *

 **A/N: Well... I went off schedule. Sorry about that. My family and I have been super stressed the past week or so about my physical health and we've been pretty overwhelmed, along with the fact that I'm staring at a computer screen for more than seven hours per day now with coding and my eyes are like dead xD.**

 **Right, so QOTC! What is the name of District Four's Academy Director?**

 **Also, extra bonus sponsor point if you can tell me where I got the Reaped female tribute's name from. Y'all know I'm obsessed with Latin and that I'm sorta uncreative with names so it shouldn't be too hard...**

 **So what did you think of these two? Predicted Placements? Hope this chapter didn't suck. It's a little rushed so sorry about that again.**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	10. Chapter 10 — District 5 Reaping

"Competitions are a great way for everyone to do their best and reach their full potential."

* * *

 **Galvan Phelps, 15**

 **District 5 Tribute**

 _Splash!_

"I'm coming in too, wait up!" Kelvin yelled before jumping in the cool water himself. As he resurfaced, he glanced around. "Hey, where are you?"

"Gotcha!" Galvan laughed, pulling on his twin brother's leg in the water. "Hey, race you to the other side?"

Kelvin swam away from Galvan and more towards the other bank, getting an early lead. "Yeah, GO!"

The twins swam to the other side, where one of the hydroelectric power plants were located. The water was cold and crisp but comfortable, and Galvan and Kelvin swam there consistently; they had gotten the 'okay' from one of the power plant heads.

"Hey, so are they coming today to catch a cool off before the Reaping?" 'They' was referring to the gaggle of people Galvan always had with him, being incredibly extroverted.

"Yeah, Aura's coming as well, bro."

Aura was the daughter of a wealthy merchant and who, Galvan was slightly embarrassed to admit, he crushed on, competing with his twin for her affections. His alpha-male feelings had really come out in unhealthy ways then.

"Oh, there they come!" Galvan shouted.

"They're here!" Kelvin screamed at the same time.

"Ha, I said it before you."

"We'll see how that translates to swimming speed. I'm going to beat you so badly, you're going to be eating my bubbles!" Kelvin declared.

"Hey, who's gonna be winning here? If it was anyone, it'd be me." A new voice entered the conversation and the two in the water looked up, grinning as they recognized his face.

"Siv! Man of the hour right here," Galvan joked. Then turning to the rest of the boys on shore, he asked, "Hey so you all wanna come in the water for a little race?"

He was answered with a spray of water in his face. And then another, and another, and another. "Winner takes all! We're going to the dock. Ready... set... go!"

They all swam, with various degrees of speed and skill, to the dock. Galvan held his breath and freestyled his way to the finish line, which he estimated was about fifty meters away. _I just need to pass Kelvin and I'll be in first!_ He sprinted as fast as he could, kicking fiercely and pulling the water with strong arms. This was what he loved about competition. The strain of his own physical capabilities and revealing his full potential by pushing himself to the fullest. There wasn't any fun in competing with himself; it had to be with other people as well.

The adrenaline rush fueled him and with a series of intense kicks and pulls, he pulled right past Kelvin, touching the bank a fraction of a second before him. He burst out of the water, panting from holding his breath, shouting, "First!"

"Darn it, Galvan!" Kelvin chuckled, breathing heavily. "I was so close to finally beating you."

"Key word being 'close,'" Galvan returned with a grin of success. "Dang, I thought you had me beat there, though."

"I did as well, bro. Hey, at least we have time now to catch our breath before the swim back, right?"

The two didn't have to wait for long; their friends appeared soon after, latching onto the bank with their hands and taking in deep breaths. "Good going out there, guys," Galvan said. "You all are improving at such a fast rate, you're going to beat me in a few days!"

Siv grinned at Galvan's compliment along with the other boys. "Thanks mate, but as we get faster, so will you."

"Thanks for pointing out the obvious," Galvan said with a witty smile. "Except I'm gonna get lazy sometime, thinking my boys who I taught to swim'll never catch up." He knew it was unlikely, but he had to give them some hope. Some hope was good for pushing people to their best selves, but give them too much, and it was false hope. Blind manipulation, which was not good for having fun with friends.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll keep that day in mind forever. The day I finally beat Galvan Phelps... in my dreams."

"Don't underrate yourself, Siv! You're amazing and have so much talent; I've been swimming since three, from that time my parents took this guy," he pointed to his twin, "and I to Lake Powell. So just work at your own accord—I know we've been competing and all, but they're friendly races. What's more important is competing against your own self than to compare yourself against other people. It's more fun the first way." He smiled. "This goes for all of you, by the way. I know it sounds cheesy and cliché, but racing is all in the fun, right? Now, if it were a real competition..." Galvan joked, the other boys laughing.

They all knew he was always provoking them to race against him, but only recreationally, and it was for good fun. However in the pool, he was someone to be frightened of. Galvan's face grew dreamy as he recalled his earliest memory—his first swimming experience.

Galvan's heart and body warmed despite the chilly water at the pleasantness and nostalgia. It was at Lake Powell where his parents had taught him how to swim. Well, not really swim, per se, but it was where they had first introduced him to the water and Kelvin and Galvan had splashed and paddled in the shallower areas on the banks. He was jolted out of his reminiscing when a stream of water hit him in his left eye.

"Hey!" Galvan ducked under the water and, opening his eyes, identified the shooter as Kelvin. _Of course_. Kicking back upwards, he cupped his hands together and when he broke the surface, squeezed them together, sending a jet of water towards his twin who flinched backwards as the water hit him. "Gotcha!"

"WATER WAR!" Siv shouted.

Hoots and cheers filled the air as the group of boys started splashing at each other, the water in the lake rippling.

Out of the corner of his eye, Galvan thought he saw someone on the shore walking towards them. "Hey guys, Aura's here with Sunny and Rain!" he shouted, knowing the group's fondness for the fifteen-year-old, her friend, and her friend's brother. The splashing stopped and the water's surface returned back to slightly calm, no longer unpredictable and going everywhere.

Aura giggled and slipped inside the water alongside the other boys, splashing Sunny playfully with a wave of water as she laughed, got in, and splashed back. Rain stayed on shore, not wanting to get his slacks wet.

Though it was nice, idling without a purpose except to play and have fun with the newcomers, Galvan was impatient and wanted some sort of competition to focus himself on. Because more than anything, he wanted a purpose to throw himself at.

"Do you guys want to do relays?" he asked when the water war looked as if it were about to start up again.

Everyone agreed. He sorted them into fair teams and they all agreed that each person would race to the other side and back, with Rain as the fair referee.

"On your marks. Get set. Go!" he shouted, and the leadoffs sprinted towards the bank and back.

The waves of water radiating from the leadoff swimmers' strokes reminded Galvan of his dream.

 _Would this be like what the ocean waves look like?_ Galvan thought to himself. He couldn't imagine it was the same—the difference between freedom, water without bounds, compared to this place. Sure, it was good, but Galvan had never been the type to settle for good, ambitious as he was. He wanted the best—the ocean, with its limitless water. But it was only a faraway dream, as frivolous as a promise. There was no way for him to get to it despite his best efforts. He was practical; the only way to get there would be to... well, he wouldn't even go down that road, one of death and gore.

* * *

"Does anything really matter anymore?..."

* * *

 **Esfir Voltaict, 14**

 **District 5 Tribute**

"Esfir, darling, could you please run some really quick errands for me? Then you can have the rest of the day to yourself and Namid," their father Kolya told them with a wink and _T_ _he Look_.

"Y-Yeah, Dad, sure, that's, um, fine with me." Realizing they didn't know what errands they had just promised to run, they added, "Uhh, so what errands, again?"

He smiled gently, picking them up and hugging their body. Esfir could feel their bones jutting out against their father's lean muscle and his arm against their binder, ever squeezing their chest flat, triggered painful memories.

 _The fracture._ Dirtied bandage wraps lined their vision, the slight pain in their chest more pronounced than ever, just like it was before they had came out and felt comfortable enough in their own home to ask for a real binder.

They couldn't help gasping out in pain, breathing becoming shallow, pupils dilating with fear.

Their father realized something was wrong and put Esfir down. He didn't waste any time asking if they were all right; it was obvious they weren't right. Esfir murmured a silent thanks to their father for getting straight to the point like he always did.

"What do you need?"

But alas, it was _talking_ , again. They hated talking. All their anxiety spilling out into words, they never could put their thoughts together anyway, and no one could truly understand them because their thoughts weren't the same as their words and—

 _Breathe._ They focused their breathing, forced it to stabilize and for them to calm down. _In and out._ Out of the corner of their eye, they could see their father looking at them, worried. "Do you need something, my precious child?"

Esfir rehearsed what they were going to say in their mind. _Just some time, that's all. Or a little air. I'm fine._ They opened their mouth to speak. "Uhh Dad, all I need is some t-time, that's all, yeah. Um, maybe air as well. Yeah." They knew they were about to say something, but they couldn't remember. What was it, again? Esfir took a look at their father, his scared gaze, scared _for them_.

 _Oh, reassurance!_ they thought with a relieved breath. Esfir added, "So I'm f-fine."

He examined them, looking Esfir up and down with concerned eyes. Usually people staring at them made Esfir uneasy, self-conscious, most of the time, but this was a gaze of _love_. As in, the paternal kind. "Esfir, if you want to just..." he hesitated. They already knew what he was going to say. _Talk with me._

"I'm always here for you, remember that." The doorbell rang, causing Esfir to flinch at the sound. "That's probably Namid. She'll want to see you."

Esfir's face brightened at the mention Namid, their worries washed away. She made everything better, and they even felt comfortable talking with her. "R-Right, thanks, D-Dad." Their voice shook, but it shook significantly less than their earlier stages, thank goodness. They walked to the door and opened it, attempting a smile.

"Hi, Esfir! Oh, and hi, Mr. Voltaict, nice to see you again!" Greetings were exchanged between the two parties, and Namid asked, "Esfir, would you like to hang out and do something," she blushed, trying to hide it, "maybe at my house?"

Esfir was elated. All their life, they had tried to get in groups with others, who had kicked them away like nothing. That was why they loved Namid so much— _platonically, of course_ , they added; she accepted Esfir for who they were. _I think it's been_ two _conversations this week!_ they thought. _And they weren't even one-sided._

They pushed their stutter and anxiety away as best they could. _Namid's friendly. She won't judge you._ "That would be g-great, thank you." Esfir winced at how awkward their words were phrased, but they had only stuttered once and that was accomplishment enough. Sometimes they wished they could take a bit more initiative, but it was hard; being forgotten and left for nothing for years had made them slightly lazy. _Maybe not just slightly..._ Esfir thought guiltily as Namid wrapped an arm around them and gently pushed them to keep walking to her house.

The two passed the market, Namid filling Esfir's world with chatter, an unusual feeling for them. But this time, they didn't feel pressured to respond in a way that made a good impression; they knew whatever their response, Namid would just roll with it and accept their awkwardness as part of them, instead of doing what everyone else did: shun them or worse, —

 _Splat!_

Esfir jumped back in disgust, staring at the bright red tomato. They liked tomatoes, but to eat, not to have thrown at them. They sighed resignedly. _I should have known this would happen._ They berated themself for following this route and forgetting everyone was out of school, especially the merchant kids with their stuck-up beliefs and close-mindedness. Their only choice now was to wait until the kids had their fill of humiliating them.

"Esfir, let's run on the count of three, all right?" Namid said, assessing the situation and realizing they were outnumbered by a lot.

They nodded in assent.

"One, two, three!"

The two of them sprinted down the pathway, past all the shopfronts and merchant kids. "You two girls, stop!" They knew that voice. It was one of Esfir's common taunters—Lucis—and his intent was obvious in this case: to subtly make Esfir self-berate themselves even more and strengthen on their dysphoria.

Esfir shifted awkwardly, hiding their face by putting their head down so their feminine looks would be hidden, looks they intended on changing soon. They wanted to shout as loud as they could, _I am not a girl!_ But they couldn't, weren't brave enough to stand up to the shouter.

"Hey, you! Lucis!" Namid screamed at the boy.

"What up?" he said, acting chill. "You hanging with this gal now? I thought you had better taste."

Esfir wanted to punch him. Such violent thoughts _never_ crossed their mind. What was it this time? They were so used to people misgendering them, whether it be on purpose or not, they had learned the art of slowing themself down and ignoring the person as best they could. The thought came to their mind with a chill. _Namid._

They expected Namid to join Lucis's side, like their other "friends" they had before coming out, but low and behold, Namid retorted, "I rather think I do have good taste in making _friends._ " She emphasized that word and Esfir felt rays of respect for the girl.

"However," she continued, "You obviously have a better way of spending your life than criticizing other people. I mean, I could do that as well. Tell everyone how closed-minded and unaccepting you are of modern science. But I choose to focus on the positives of people, and Esfir here has an infinite amount of positives and they make my life a lot better."

 _Do I really?_ Esfir thought to themself, heart warm and fuzzy at Namid's compliments. They didn't know she thought of them that way, but they knew they thought of her as the same.

"It would pay off for yourself if you were to do the same," she ended, grabbing Esfir's arm with a protective stance, saying, "Come on, Esfir, let's continue on to my place."

They followed Namid without a second glance back at Lucis. "Uh, t-thanks for, uh, standing up for me like that back there," they said, words carefully placed as to compensate for their inability to fully put their appreciation into speech. But they still winced at the pure clunkiness of the sentence.

"Hey, it was no problem at all. Lucis deserved it and you don't. I really meant it when I said you have an infinite amount of positives, friend."

"Seriously? I-I mean, thanks, uh, I would say the same for y-you, but you know like speech and stuff..."

Namid didn't respond to Esfir with a wane condescending smile at her badly put-together response; instead, she exclaimed, "Yay—you're so amazing and brave, I'm so honored to be friends with you. Love you so much, friend." She put her arm around Esfir's shoulders, who did the same. "Ready to meet my siblings?"

* * *

"I was once willing to do anything to survive, but now, I'm willing to do anything to keep my loved ones alive."

* * *

 **Erwin Faraday, 39**

 **District 5 Male Mentor**

"Welcome to the District Five Reaping for the fifty-seventh annual Hunger Games!" the escort, Gladiator Pelvismith, announced over the loudspeaker. Concise and to the point, he continued, "First, the video." The Capitol video of the crushing of the rebellion played like it did every year, followed by the past Hunger Games. Erwin snuck a sideways glance at Cicera, a sad but pleased smile on his face. She would never have the same feelings towards him like he did, he thought with a pang of melancholy emotion.

But then why did he stay, tied to her, when he could have just moved on, finding one of the perfect girls groomed by their rich parents to sell off to even richer people? He had done it in his Hunger Games—ditched the concepts of loyalty and morals and friends, and after all, he had won. Inside, however, he knew the real reason was that he had made an internal promise to never betray like he had again. Not even for survival. It wasn't the type of person he wanted to become.

Erwin grasped Cicera's hand when they showed the highlighting footage of the forty-eighth games—Panther Eguchi's games. The arena was a representation of the seventh circle of hell, originally thought of by a man named Dante or something. He had to mentor that year, along with Ridge. His tribute, like all of them except Panther, perished, Ilven himself burned alive, then torn apart by dog mutts.

He had comforted Cicera, Arianne passing away during the year of the forty-seventh, memory fresh in her mind and distracted her from the hellish arena and its likeliness to the burnt-down power plant Arianne was found in.

"I'm here, Cicera," he whispered, feeling the cool palm of Cicera's hand tightening around his own. "It's only for a few more seconds; bend down and pretend to adjust your chair if that helps."

She did as so, and the rest of the video passed quickly. "Ready to see your tribute this year?" he asked her gently. Erwin always liked that moment, the pure mystery and chance of it, which quickly flew away when he realized, every year, that the boy Reaped would likely die.

"First, I shall reap the female tribute," the escort broadcasted gravely in a monotone. "And her name is... Esfir Voltaict!"

"She's yours!" Erwin whispered fiercely.

A loud shout came from the audience. "And THEIR name is Esfir Voltaict, Sir!" Erwin kept it in mind to call Esfir via they/them pronouns; personal respect was of the utmost to him.

"Is it really?" Gladiator said. "Esfir Voltaict, please come up to stage and explain."

As she— _they_ , Erwin corrected—walked up to the stage, he found himself assessing them as if they were his own tribute. _Little to no muscles, flat chest, short and skinny, all bones._ They carried themself with a cautious and wary air, even when Gladiator handed them the microphone.

"Esfir, do you have any words to say?" he asked, voice still broadcasted somehow despite the microphone being in Esfir's hands.

"N-N-No," they replied slowly, only responding after a while.

Gladiator recovered, "That was Esfir Voltaict, everyone! Now, I shall reap the boy out of the males' bowl.

"And his name is... Galvan Phelps!"

 _Galvan Phelps._ Erwin tried out the name, liking how it sounded, with flow. He raised his head, craning his neck to find the boy.

"ARGH!" a shout came from the audience, and Erwin's eyes followed that shout, which turned out to be from a tall and muscular boy with light blonde, almost white, hair and pale skin. For the first time in a while, he felt like his tribute had a fighting chance. Galvan stomped up the stage, footsteps loud. Erwin could feel the vibration on stage.

Gladiator did the same thing as he did to Esfir, handing him the microphone as he asked, again, "Galvan, would you like to say anything before you leave?"

"Yes," he declared. "Citizens of District Five—I shall come out of the Hunger Games just like how I come out of the pool at swim competitions: victorious and having done my utter best."

Galvan handed back the microphone and took a seat beside Esfir. Gladiator said, "That is all we have for today. Our tributes—Galvan and Esfir!"

* * *

 **A/N: This was /totally not/ very late. Sorry about that. But just an announcement: My family and I are going on vacation from July 16th to July 27th without wifi nor internet connection, and I won't be able to write because I won't have my laptop. I'll do my best to get the District 6 Reaping before then and perhaps work on a short interlude chapter during my trip, but no promises, as I'm very busy this week with packing, prep, and stuff.**

 **QOTC: What is the name of the lake Galvan learned to swim at? It's an actual lake located in Utah, actually.**

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter and our two tributes from Five! Just a note: Esfir uses they/them pronouns, as they are non-binary. Opinions on our two tributes? Predicted Placements? Again, this chapter may seem a little long, but it may or may not be because Erwin's POV got sort of long...**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	11. Chapter 11 — District 6 Reaping

"Losing is for the weak. And I am anything but."

* * *

 **Romaeus Storrickon, 17**

 **District 6**

Brushing past countless dirty bodies and gamblers, Romaeus's face grew more contemptuous and more contemptuous. The lowly folk knew nothing, worthless rats who used up precious oxygen and resources. The only good thing that ever came out of them was the money gained, the profit his family's fighting business scammed out of them, which eventually routed its way to himself. He pushed a short and shrimpy-looking guy off to the side to clear his path without looking twice. Rom was used to taking this route—the shortest and fastest—and he absolutely would not take another for worthless men.

He quickly reached his family's section underground after passing the general crowd—the hollowed-out rooms Romaeus himself had helped dig out, used as an office. It was in the very back, earthen door invisible unless one knew to look for it. He pulled open the disguised door and walked in. Despite the doorframe's height being exactly six feet upwards, Rom didn't stoop nor duck. With half an inch to spare, he wasn't worried; he knew this place like the back of his hand, and half an inch was a large difference. Striding into the dark, his eyes automatically went to the drawer.

At first, it had been hard. Hard to determine where on his body to inject the medicine, the potion which made him feel indestructible. Now, however, his green veins bulged out against his flaking and light yellow skin. To look like a Morphling was a terrible disgrace for Rom, but he had soon realized how it intimidated and set his opponents and people in general, on edge. And besides, it was a small price to pay for the endless strength and superhuman physical abilities it gave him.

"You're set for a fight in ninety minutes. Last one before we close for the night and tomorrow. Ready?" his mother, Motorra said, hunched over messy stacks of crumbled papers.

"Definitely ready," he replied. "Always am."

"You're against Grant. Better take your 'roids," his father added.

Rom rolled his eyes, ignoring his words, but still walking over to the drawer. Why would he forget to take them? Now he felt as if his father was just rubbing in the fact that he wasn't strong enough to win without them against Grant. But he couldn't fight someone else; pre-scheduled fights against harsher opponents brought in more dough. Though there wasn't a fighter as harsh as himself.

He pulled the cabinet open and injected the steroids with a practiced precision, making the drug's path more efficient.

After he was sure the steroids were starting to be absorbed by his body, Romaeus started stretching his muscles. He focused on light steps and using his opponent's momentum in a fight versus only using straight-out punches and going all-out. He included both, and it was rare for a street fighter to have that strategy because was boring and ungory, but that was what Romaeus needed the steroids for. Besides, he didn't care one bit about the audience's opinion.

Though he had above-average strength and endurance, above-average wasn't going to cut it. He needed to be _exceptional_ due to his father's high standards and plans of passing down the business to him in the future. He needed to always win, be utterly brutal, and give devastating blows; emphasis on the always win.

Romaeus just could not—would not lose. Not to Grant, not tonight.

Once he had finished psyching himself up for the fight, reassuring himself of his capabilities, he set off. Thirty minutes till the fight, he needed to be up on the podium in front of the crowd to show them his body, muscles, posture, stance. Himself. For betting purposes, of course.

On the other side of the ring, on another pedestal, Grant faced the crowd, flexing his muscles and showing off his upper body. Rom used this time to recall past fights against Grant in his memory, how he took risks and struck widely. Rom was bold, too, but he was far more controlled, thinking and calculating.

This fight was going to be close, but he had the edge. Romaeus jumped a bit, showing his spring and lift along with his balance. He continued to show his attributes, focusing less on his muscles than posing in intimidating ways, unlike Grant. By the time all bets were placed, the two were ready to go head-to-head.

They were escorted into their positions and stood there for five seconds before the whistle blew, signifying the beginning of the fight. Romaeus, anything but cautious, gave Grant the first blow, striking hard and fast to his cheek.

Grant took it, letting the punch glance off him. Romaeus ran through possible attacks through his mind. He threw them into the mental trash can.

 _Oh, screw it, let's do this._ He let the stream of the fight take him, the adrenaline rushing in. But Grant was coming in, relatively slowly but like an anvil; he couldn't dodge the blow.

The slap of fist on flesh echoed in Romaeus's head. He tried to stop his fall onto the floor, but couldn't. Lying there. The rush of the fight fell away and he felt everything, from the smell of the place to the wet and sweaty mat on the floor.

The crowd started counting.

"Ten... Nine... "

 _Get up!_ he urged himself. _Come on, Rom, you can't lose, you can't be humiliated by that loser. Get that worthless punk to the ground and crush him._

"Three... Two... "

Causing his head to spin and yellow spots to appear in front of his eyes, Romaeus got up with one second left.

"Come on, Rom, my money's on you!" a voice came from the side. Or was it the ceiling? He was spinning, everything only a blur around him.

If there was anything Grant had, it'd be honor, Romaeus knew. Unlike Trabule, the cocky factory worker, but that was why Rom had initiated the fight against him; Grant wouldn't hit a dazed man, not until his dizziness cleared, somewhat. Despite how Grant had skill and natural athleticism on his side, the willingness to fight hard and dirty was the most important.

 _That's going to be your downfall._ Grant was weak, worthless, not fit for the fights. Rom was not. He would rise, rise and prove his strength to the world, to Six, and the world would reward him for it, as he would get the business and prosperity would be in his future.

Breathing hard, panting, letting the blood rush to his head, blood dripping down his temple, he cracked his knuckles, barely aware, and stared Grant down. Tried his best to focus on his blurry figure. His barely coherent thoughts formed one word— _n_ _ow._

Hooking his foot behind Grant's, he pulled it back with his own momentum. The thud of body hitting the floor echoed in his ears. He blocked out the roar of the crowd, the sound, white noise; only focused on the counting of the official. _Keep him down._ _Only ten seconds._

He aimed himself at the blob on the floor, kicking it. The crowd roared in protest, his head hurt, he only knew how to win and—

"Romaeus wins!"

Emotion rushed through him at once, despite his lightheadedness and fatigue. Relief—relieved he didn't lose to worthless, weak, and unworthy Grant. He had won yet again; he was unstoppable. Compared to the fighters here, he was God. All-powerful, one thousand times better, more deserving, than them all. They were worthless; he was worth millions.

As he escorted himself out of the ring, people swarmed him and he raised his hand to swat them off. Didn't they realize that he didn't want to talk with them? But Rom's still-dazed eyes caught a sheaf of red hair, rare in Six, and he lowered his hand. _Barker_. He could bear with him as company; Barker was actually decent.

"Hey, nice job, man," Barker said, patting him on the back.

Rom stifled a wince at the pain, but gritted his teeth and smiled. His nausea had almost faded by now, and he was used to it. "'Ey, thanks. You know where Kitter is?"

Barker frowned at the name and Rom got it. Kitter still called him Beverly despite his constant attempts to inform her it he preferred Barker. He added, "It's fine, I'll find her, she'll be looking for me, anyway."

They clasped hands and exchanged words before Rom headed towards the office.

* * *

"I swear, if you try to hurt me, if you lay one finger on me... you'll have hell to pay."

* * *

 **Viatrix Sloane, 15**

 **District 6**

"Rahul! Rahul! Do we seriously have to wait all day for Windell to finish up his deal? I'm sick of waiting; could we _please_ go and get some candy from the store over there?" Viatrix begged.

Her older brother Rahul sighed. "Viatrix this deal is of the utmost importance towards our success. I've plotted it all out; if Windell and Arah can successfully 'negotiate'," he said carefully, "we're set and you can have all the candy you want then. But only if you stay here."

"But that's so far away!" she protested. A slew of thoughts went through her mind. _Kara and Logan and Eric are here; if I could get them to distract Rahul then I'd be off._ She calculated the details. _The hand signal would work, as I know Kara has that new knife she "attained" yesterday, and Rahul hasn't seen it yet..._

Viatrix gave the hand signal and Kara, loyal as ever, took her knife out and showed it to the foursome, engaging Rahul in conversation and diverting his attention from her. She slipped away quietly, Rahul not noticing. _Boom, mission accomplished._

Fidgeting with a hairband in her hand, she made a beeline for the store with candy, a bounce in her step. Viatrix was already calculating, making a plan to attain the sweets. A few years ago, people had started telling her she was too old to look like a child anymore, something she always exploited when she was young. And it was so much easier to steal, when she was younger, too!

Her whining stopped as something shiny caught her eye, right in her peripheral vision. Viatrix turned, face lighting up with amazement as she stopped in front of another vendor, this one selling flashy bracelets lighting up with colored electricity, _changing color!_ Checking the price, it was far too expensive for the few Nemians she had on her. She'd expected as much; batteries were costly. A few Nemians were enough to buy a few candies, but this was out of her range, even.

A small ball of red-hot rage built inside her. Viatrix even stopped in front, ignoring the fact that Rahul would have noticed her gone by now, and observed passerby stopping, choosing, buying the bracelets. _I_ need _one of those._ She was overcome by an inexplicable desire to grab one, watch it flash with wide eyes, wear it and flaunt it over her brothers' heads.

They were so bright, so shiny, so colorful... A plan started to form in her mind. No money, no problem; stealing was a talent of hers.

Viatrix walked up to the vendor himself, a large smile on her face, wide eyes portraying the perfect picture of a child and her innocence. She always appeared to people like that upon first impression and Viatrix knew that face well. "Good morning, sir!" she called out.

"Why, hello there," he cocked his head to the side. "Are you looking to buy something? You don't look as if you have much money there with you."

This question caught her off guard slightly, but Viatrix recovered herself quickly, her smile and bright eyes not waning in the slightest. "How much does one cost?" she asked, well-knowing the price of the bracelet.

"Forty-three Nemians. How much do you have?"

She opened her palm to show him the mere three coins. "I-I-I really w-w-want one..." Viatrix forced her voice to wobble and her eyes to water a margin, enough so it looked real, but not over-the-top. Knowing what effect her big, watery eyes and features had on the man, she expected consent.

"Maybe you can bring your parents back here later in the day?" He hesitated, and Viatrix watched his face carefully. "What's your name?"

Why did he have to take so long, asking questions? She longed to bite him, to sink her teeth and nails into his soft flesh and make him pay for forcing her to wait, stop, talk.

"Peony," she told him, hiding her anger beneath a practiced smile. _Only a little while longer, then you can get the bracelet_. "Peony Smith." That was the name of a girl she'd met the day before, the one she stole the bag of money from.

The vendor's head snapped towards Viatrix. Narrowing his eyes, he stated, "So funny, how your 'name,'" he made bunny ears, "is my daughter's. Who happened to be robbed yesterday by a young girl she described with your features."

If Viatrix had been anyone else, caught in this act of fraud, she would have been embarrassed, scared, demoralized. However, she wasn't. That electric bracelet was her life. It was what she needed, she could feel it in her blood. And this petty man was standing _right between her and the cart full of them and selfish and not wanting her to have one even though there were so many and he was greedy and—_

"YAAAAA!" The man was screaming insults at her but she let them glance by, noticing them but not registering the actual insults.

 _No one insults me. Ever._ She leapt onto the man's body, hands scrabbling for purchase. Her angelic innocent face was gone now and in its place was one of a bloodthirsty, fearless, ten-year-old trapped inside the body of a fifteen-year-old.

She didn't care about consequences, she was making him pay for not giving her a bracelet, for being mean to her, _for being an annoying presence standing in her way._ He was a bad man because he hurt her and anything and anyone who hurt her would have to be utterly demolished.

When Viatrix was satisfied with the beating she gave the vendor, she slipped past the worried-looking crowd who had formed around her and the man, head held high, snatched a light-up bracelet from the pile, and ran. Hopefully they wouldn't go and call a Peacekeeper; they usually left this market open and unguarded due to the much-more-popular market that sold more... questionable... products on the other side of the district. And there was that underground fighting ring there too, which made it a popular spot for Peacekeepers looking for an adrenaline rush, gambling and betting.

However, Viatrix never went there, over to the other side of the district. She'd vowed never to as a child of eight, after her brothers and her left their mother's flat. Heck, she didn't even know if they were her brothers. Being paid to make children with other, different people wasn't a rare thing to do in Six, which meant there were many others like her. _Ew, forbidden territory,_ Viatrix told herself. _Don't want to go there._

 _Shoot!_ she realized. _Rahul and the others; they're probably looking for me._ Viatrix started to walk towards the front of the market, where she knew they were waiting for her other two brothers, but paused, seeing the candy vendor she was lusting after before right in front of her. Feeling around in her pockets, her hands touched upon the coins she left, enough to buy a few pieces.

 _Screw it, I don't need those._ They'd be her escape route, her way out if she got caught stealing them. Why waste money if she didn't have to? And in order to buy something, she'd have to stand in that line to pay.

Slipping her hands out of her pockets, she proceeded to slip a few candies away from the large piles without the vendor noticing. A satisfied smirk crossed her face as she unwrapped the delicacies and stuffed them into her mouth. _So good._ She was about to grab another one when she heard her name shouted.

"Viatrix!" Rahul's concerned and worry-lined face stood out from the rest of the crowd. "We've been looking for you; where've you been?" She watched him take in the flashing bracelet, her standing next to the candy vendor and groaned. "Windell got the deal. All you—and you two, too," he gestured to Eric and Kara, "have to do is get past the Reaping, and we're set for the entire year."

* * *

"The division between rich and poor has never been so pronounced."

* * *

 **Scarlett Rothchild, 26**

 **District 6 Female Mentor**

The eclipse party had left her drained and exhausted; partying at noon had its downfalls. Worse of all, her family had hosted it, making it an exclusive Victors-and-upper-class-folk-only party. Heck, her parents had even excluded Ling, due to the fact that they were agender. And her eyes were _so_ tired. Scarlett had made the mistake of taking off her Capitol-made eclipse glasses while still looking at the sun. There was still a bright yellow dot appearing in the middle of her vision whenever she blinked or stared at a specific place too long. And of course, Reign had laughed at her for doing so.

She frowned at that, eyebrows creasing, then was horrified. There were Capitolite photographers and news stations _filming_ her, and they'd just caught _The_ Scarlett Rothchild frowning! A smile immediately lit up her face despite her mortified self underneath. Her appearance was of the utmost importance; Scarlett could already imagine her family watching the Reaping, studying her face, scolding her makeup despite it being the best she could have done.

 _Enough, enough,_ she thought. _Thinking of Mother, Father, Esmeralda, Octavian, and Magina never helps._ With a practiced slow blink, she wiped away her negative thoughts. _Stay happy. Stay unbothered. You have everything; there's nothing you need to worry about._

It was the only way she could retain her perfect composure. At least, soon, the escort would have something to say, something for Scarlett to think about, strategize about, and focus on to shield her true feelings from everyone else. Parties and clubs were good for that, having fun while knowing no one would be sober enough to remember her full name, but this was the second-best thing.

Soon enough, once the general audiences settled down, the video on the Rebellion began to play, and the recaps of all the previous Hunger Games followed thereafter. Knowing every Games by sight due to constant work and strategy talk with Reign, Scarlett wasn't horrified nor shocked at all the bloodshed. Her own Games, though, with the blistering hot desert arena, made her cringe and clench her jaw tighter.

The lights came on shortly after she watched herself behead the second-place tribute with a sponsored light sword made out of pure silver and the escort began talking.

"Today, we come together and remember all our previous tributes, both successful and not, and attempt not to follow in the paths of the latter." This comment garnered a few nervous chuckles from various people dispersed in the audience, but only from the single men and women, Scarlett noted, who didn't have children of their own.

The escort continued, "So I shall began today by choosing our two lucky winners of the draw who will valiantly and bravely fight for the glory and success in the Capitol a few weeks from today."

Reaching into the girls' bowl, she cried out, "Our first shall be Miss Viatrix Sloane, age fifteen!"

A cute girl with brown-black hair pranced up to the stage, a big smile on her face. _She's fifteen?_ Scarlett thought the escort must have made a mistake; surely this youth was twelve, at most.

Apparently, the escort had the same idea. "Aren't you a young one, huh?"

As soon as she spoke, though, Scarlett knew the female was fifteen. Viatrix's voice took on a musical lilt but Scarlett detected some dark undertones. "I may not look it, but I'm fifteen. And believe it or not, I have enough energy to win the Games and bring victory to our district."

Scarlett noticed the specific word she used—energy, and hoped she didn't get one of those unhinged reckless youngsters who did whatever they wanted. Though that must've been her mentor's first impression of her, as well.

The escort said a few words to close Viatrix's and the teenager sat, feet swinging and kicking underneath her chair.

"Now, onto the males! Our tribute shall be... Romaeus Storrickon, of seventeen years old! Please come up quickly."

A sickly-looking boy with a lanky build slowly stepped out of his pen, clearly biding his time and arrogantly making everyone else wait for his painfully slow ascent to the stage. Thank goodness Reign was the mentor for the male tributes; mentoring a Morphling was worse than an over-energetic girl.

"Come on, boy, hurry up. We're two minutes behind schedule," a Peacekeeper said to him.

Though Scarlett's eyes were focused on the scene, she barely noticed his fist flying through the air, hitting the Peacekeeper smack in the face. An angry red mark started spreading; whether it be of injury or embarrassment, she didn't know. Three more Peacekeepers stormed him and a few fired shots into the air as the crowd cried out, and Romaeus was taken into the Town Hall without last words to the crowd.

* * *

 **A/N: Right, we're halfway through the Reapings! Sorry for the month-long wait; vacation threw me out of the writing loop but now I'm back. School will be starting after Labor day as well, and I'm doing a cooking camp and writing (seemingly endless) book reviews for my local library. So that's just a heads' up; if updates are coming out slowly, that's why. I won't abandon this SYOT, I assure you.**

 **The QOTC: What was the fake name Viatrix used to give to the vendor?**

 **Also, I'm doing a check-in to see if you're reading. You don't have to review a lot for your tribute to win or make it far, but it's nice to see if you're following the story. Credit to goldie031 for the idea. So PM me a new message with the title "Check-In 1" and send me your tribute's favorite time of day. (the previous version was wrong, sorry )**

 **Shameless promo time; MysticalPineForest has an AU SYOT based off our current-day countries, so check that out. It's called _Spoils of War._ Just don't submit to the German female spot ;). The aforementioned  goldie031 also has a SYOT so submit to that as well :)**

 **And finally *whew*, just out of curiosity, did any of you see the eclipse today?**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	12. Chapter 12 — Interlude

"Managing a country is an enormous job. A job for me, and me alone."

* * *

 **Wester Regalus, 63**

 **President of Panem**

He would never admit it, but he was actually excited for this year's Games. An arena set in Ancient Rome was a genius idea, everything the Hunger Games stood for—a bloodied land wrecked with slaughter he had only read about in old myths and fables. The fact that he held so many things over Rya's head only made him relish it more. It had to meet his lofty expectations, or else there would be punishment. Horrible, terrible punishment, torture which would make her repent for so blatantly lying to him and for disappointing the people of Panem and ultimately, himself. After all, the people would believe him. They'd be forced to, or die. All disbelievers would be silenced. They had to, for him to survive in this cutthroat world.

The hard metal heels of his leather dress shoes polished black clicked on the gold-gilded marble floors of the President's mansion. There was a loud commotion outside, loud enough to have penetrated the thick stone walls of the place, and highly annoying. Drunk, frivolous, partying Capitolites. Beckoning to a nearby Peacekeeper, he ordered, "Make sure whatever is going outside stops. They're disturbing the peace," and walked away as quickly as he had come, noticing the officer talking into the hand-held radio system, relaying the message.

Heading to his private quarters, Wester continued. He wanted to relax and take a break from all the nonsense going on, but after he had barely taken a few steps, another Peacekeeper came up to him.

"Mister President, they're not stopping. They're protesting," he said.

His first instinct was to react with anger. He was so sure to please the Capitolites, to satisfy them with their lust for entertainment by hyping up the Hunger Games. This was all that stupid Head Gamemaker's fault, and so he muttered a vague curse underneath his breath before breathing in slowly, composing himself and working to keep his voice level as he replied, "Fine." The best way to compensate for this uproar was to ignore it completely, so the protesters were protesting for no one. "Just ignore them. It'll fade away eventually."

And with that, he proceeded to his private quarters. Uprisings had been more common lately, especially after he killed the old Head Gamemaker, that lackadaisical, stupid fool, but it wasn't anything out of the ordinary or threatening. For Capitolites went with the flow, following trends they thought "cool." They had no real ideas, no real beliefs, but were only encouraged by what was in trend. Leave them a few months alone, please them with a spectacular bloody fighting match, and it would blow over completely, another failed fad.

Their lack of knowledge and personality were almost scornful, but compared to the stubborn District residents, he would take it. Besides, he had a hot bath to get to, one deep inside the mansion, soundproofed, locked many times over, and available to him alone. There, his thoughts could fade away into the steam, and his anxiety could dissolve. In short, it was heaven.

* * *

"I did not know handling death threats was part of the job description."

* * *

 **Rya Lupus, 24**

 **Head Gamemaker**

A brief walk outside was all she needed to clear her mind and think of some more possible mutations that didn't seem too obvious to the Ancient Roman theme but related nevertheless. The fidget spinner wasn't working to take all the excitement from her mind and was more of a distraction than salve, so she had to resort to classical methods. Sure, there was some sort of a protest going on, but dressed in her hot pink dress with frills—an emerging trend—she would fit right into the typical pedestrian passerby. With a brief nod to some Peacekeepers in the atrium and her head held high, she slipped out one of the side exits. It was a secret President Regalus hadn't told her upon her hire, though it was probably an old tradition to. Showed how much he trusted her, anyway. Well, she didn't trust him either, and she sure as heck didn't think she owed him anything for appointing her Head Gamemaker. It was her own talent, her own creativity and hard work that had gotten her the job!

Now that the brisk air was in her face, and the sun shining lightly, enough for warmth, but not making the conditions too hot, a smile appeared on her face, mirroring the ideas which flowed in like water. One of the plus sides of all her impulsiveness, her excitement, and nonstructural manner was the inexistent boundary or blockade other people experienced while brainstorming. The procrastination and leaving things for the last minute—she was told that no Head Gamemaker previously had left mutt-designing alone as late as her in the process—but it helped. The adrenaline and urgency she felt, combined with the fresh, clear nature, worked wonders.

Already, she had two ideas for the mutations: Incitatus, the name of an ancient Roman horse who was almost made part of an absurd emperor's consul, and gladiators in the Colosseum. The latter of the two was necessary, considering the landmarks she had chosen to put inside the arena, but the former was a crowd favorite—one whose story she had heard even in the Capitol, where ancient history was considered frivolous, she remarked upon bitterly.

Her light footsteps turned into heavier ones, echoing her change in mood. It was silly, how all these stupid Capitolites took anything other than fashion and gossip and made fun of it... and of those who studied it, considered tryhards. Ones like her. How they could take something so real and turn it into a joke, a myth, was beyond any reasoning she could come up with.

 _Myth_. That word, with so many of its connotations and connections to history, struck a chord within her. She no longer stalked through the streets but bounced through, elated. If she brought ancient Roman mythological creatures into the arena...

And there were so many, too. Medusa, the monster who could turn people into stone with a mere glance. Obviously, that would have to be weakened for the tribute-kill-tribute deaths to happen as well, but just the thought of having Medusa inside an Ancient Roman arena made her shiver with anticipation. So what others could she use? The Gamemakers might also be able to construct a Minotaur-like creature, and perhaps even a Sphinx which told riddles and gave clues to help tributes who could solve her riddles.

Rya grinned, caught up in the influx of her ideas and all the joy that came with the expectation of bringing her fantasies to life with her Gamemaking team. She was so lost in thought, so unaware of her surroundings, Rya didn't realize that she had circled the Mansion and was now in the midst of the protesters. This was not good; usually, Capitolites protesting were as manageable as a good history fact, but they looked unlike any other protesting group she had seen. They looked as if they knew what they were doing, organized into perfect lines and with chants all in unison, shouting what seemed like random strings of letters.

Though the curious and impulsive parts of her told her to stay, a logical and reasoned voice said to go back to the safety of the Mansion _immediately_ , and she started turning back, before hesitating one last second.

That last second was what cost her. Someone must have recognized her facial features, or perhaps there was a plan to wait and see what she did before grabbing her, but either way, a figure with hands clad in black—not belonging to the protest, she observed with a tinge of surprise—came out of nowhere, snatching her away.

* * *

Minotaurs, Medusa, and mysterious questioners floated through her mind with excruciating detail. Was this President Regalus's punishment for her? Was this retribution, revenge, for sending in all of her information late and leaving the Gamemaking team with less time they would have liked to do anything? She found out when a masked silhouette with a rough voice awoke her from slumber.

"Rya Lupus, twenty-four years of age. Head Gamemaker for President Regalus, appointed before the fifty-seventh Hunger Games," the person stated, with no inflection in their voice.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Rya managed to ask, crushing the fear and apprehension under her.

The figure didn't answer her, and Rya almost got up and ripped the mask off their face herself. The only thing that stopped her was not the fear of the repercussions, which came to mind a few minutes after, but laziness. Getting up would be so hard, forcing her muscles to act after being subdued by drugs—or so she assumed—was a challenging feat, and not one she wanted to step up to.

After moments of mind-numbing silence, the person spoke once again. "I presume you have heard of former Head Gamemaker Felix Junius and his 'betting scandal?'"

"Yes." Rya knew what the President was capable of regardless of his old age, and he had practically affirmed the fact that he killed Junius first-hand while threatening her months before. But what did anything have to do with Junius? He was a man who had rigged the Hunger Games for the sake of his gambling odds. In her opinion, that was a stupid thing to do; he was probably in it for the glory and not for the dedication and passion of designing and implementing knowledge like she was, anyway.

"Former Head Gamemaker Felix Junius was part of our operation. Now that we have lost our top Capitol advisor, you must realize the situation we are in right now and our proposal to you. You are welcome to decline, but the consequences will be harsh, if not fatal."

Did they want to recruit her for their purposes? And were they blackmailing her to make sure she did? They were so stupid, to think she had even a sliver of insider information about President Regalus's doings. All he did was threaten her. "This has got to be a joke, right?"

"I'm afraid not, Rya. We need information that you have. You are actually in charge of it."

Oh gosh. So they were after the blueprints and arena plans. This was the untraceable group that leaked them every year, and they were serious. There was no point in keeping the quiet, then. Rumors were broadcasted occasionally about the Rebellion, and the leaking of Hunger Games arenas was just one aspect of their plan. They would torture her otherwise, and besides, didn't she _want_ the public to share her interest, to hype about the topic she was so imbued with studying, history? This was why no one trusted her with secrets, this was why she had ruined so many friendships in the past, but speaking was oh, so tempting.

"It's themed to be in Ancient Rome." Her words came unregulated as she blurted the precious information to a dangerous group. Rya didn't think the president's violent tactics made him a good man, but to undermine the government, to undermine authority, with even more violence, was unthinkable. Why was she giving information freely to the enemy? The enemy which wanted all Capitolites dead, as well. It was unexplainable and she hated herself for it, but couldn't help herself. Historical information was what she specialized in, but what she got the most out of was telling that historical information to others. "I have the Colosseum, the Roman aqueducts, the Roman Forum, the Circus Maximus, the Rubicon river that Caesar crossed to begin the slaughter of hundreds of thousands—it's a historical link—and some villas and smaller landmarks."

The person didn't seem impressed, and Rya sat up at last, taking in her surroundings. They were inside a dimly lit room with a musty smell, but still graciously furnished. The plush luxury of the bed she was lying on and the ornate wooden chair her interrogator sat on was proof of that. "What about your blueprints?" they asked. "Put them on a flash drive and I'll figure out a dead drop we can use."

"Dead drop?" she questioned, stalling for time so she could think. What was that? And were they really done that easily? No torture, no bugging devices?

They responded, "A dead drop so you can slip the flash drive inside, and for me to pick it up later. It was a commonly used term during the Dark Days. I'd thought you'd know, considering your passion for history."

Rya's eyebrows raised and she flinched, pride hurt. Struggling to recover from the verbal blow, but not able to come up with a witty response, she merely said nothing. After enough time had passed, she declared, "All right, well, I'm leaving." The faster she could get out, the less likely they would remember they'd asked for the blueprints. And she wouldn't have to hand over the information.

"But actually..." She was doubtful they would answer, but no one had ever been able to staunch her curiosity, anyway. "Was the gambling scenario all a cover-up? And what else does your operation have planned?"

The shock had settled, and her logical mind activated. They wanted her to betray the president and disclose _classified_ information. She was going to be in so much trouble when Regalus found out. She was going to die a bloody, violent death. This group had no qualms about her dying. She was probably some useless, disposable minion of theirs.

The other person stayed silent, not answering her questions, but they must have noticed the light in her eyes, the anger directed towards them. "All right, look, Rya. We just want the blueprints. We leak them every year, yet before Junius, a Head Gamemaker has never been killed by the president. You're safe as long as you don't spill anything or give any hint you have any connections with us."

As long as she didn't spill anything. As long as she hid her connections to this awful Rebellion group. Neither deceit nor keeping quiet had been her strengths. Why couldn't this group just have left her alone? Now she had to figure out everything.

"The dead drop will be on the corner of First and Main street. Place it by the small tree. Don't tell anyone anything."

Those were the last words she heard until she fell into unconsciousness once more.

* * *

 **A/N: Happy New Year! How's 2018 going for all you? I'm back at last. Sorry for not updating until now. BUT here's a small interlude that gives a bit of insight into the subplot. I'm determined and excited to keep writing this, and I won't give the story up, I assure you. I'm over two thousand words into the next chapter too, so that will be coming out soon as well.**

 **So I thought we needed a bit of an update concerning sponsor points. I've been tallying them for everyone. If you had less than five points, I didn't add them to this list, but just ask me if you want the exact number. I may also have missed some points or reviews as well, so if you think the number is off, I'll check my records. Here they are:**

 **Platrium - 55**  
 **CreativeAJL - 46**  
 **Golden Moon Huntress - 45**  
 **CelticGames4 - 44**  
 **recklessinparadise - 43**  
 **HoppsHungerFan - 39**  
 **HogwartsDreamer113 - 39**  
 **MysticalPineForest - 35**  
 **AmericanPi - 34**  
 **renee walker - 32**  
 **goldie031 - 29**  
 **IVolunteerAsAuthor - 27**  
 **panda-nati - 26**  
 **paperairline - 16**  
 **tracelynn - 14**  
 **Sparkly She-Demon - 12**  
 **TheReaper94 - 5**

 **QOTC: What is the name of the horse Rya mentions? (I couldn't help myself.)**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


	13. Chapter 13 — District 7 Reaping

"Thank you, but I'm honestly fine."

* * *

 **Buck Nielssen, 15**

 **District 7**

"Good morning! How are you feeling today, Jax?" Buck asked, ruffling his brother's hair and rolling, yawning at the same time, to the wooden table he and his father constructed for breakfast.

Already sitting down at the table, Jax exclaimed, "I'm great, Buck! How are you?"

"I'm good," Buck smiled, rolling himself to the specified side of the table without a wooden chair, and beginning to eat his oatmeal. Between swallows, he asked, "You ready for today?" Even though Jax wouldn't be twelve for a few years, it was good to have him experience the Reaping himself so he wouldn't be too fearful when he was eligible.

"The only ones who get Reaped are the criminals and bad people, anyway," Jax repeated to Buck, who hastily corrected him.

"Well, it's random, of course, but most of the time, criminals get Reaped."

"Oh yeah! I remembered that from school, I think."

Encouraged Buck, "You have such a good memory, Jax."

His brother smiled, corner of his eyes crinkling, and Buck felt his heart melt further. Both continued to eat his oatmeal alone at the table, as their father was at work, and their mother was mending some clothes. When they had finished eating, Buck asked, "Hey, do you want to go outside to play? We can roll down the hill together."

"Oooh, yay!" squealed Jax with excitement, running out the door. Buck followed more slowly and carefully behind his brother.

When they had gotten outside, inhaling the cool morning air, Jax shouted, "Let's do this, Buck!"

Buck smiled and let the ten-year-old clamber into his lap, moving his wheelchair to the top of the hill. Though it would have been easier to have Jax walk up the hill and for Buck to just wheel himself, the hill wasn't that steep. Plus, he enjoyed the feeling of the muscles in his arms working and the strain on his body, just having something to do.

At the top of the hill in a practiced minute, Buck said, "Okay, Jax, here we go!" The wooden wheelchair the people of Seven crafted rolled down the fresh dewy grass, carrying the two boys screaming at the top of their lungs with joy and excitement. The bottom came far too soon for the two, and their sweaty, red faces with wind-blown hair were still pumping with adrenaline. Jax got off Buck's lap and began to catch his breath with his brother.

"That was so fun, Buck! Let's do that again!" he said in between breaths.

The creak of a door sounded loud enough for Jax, the shouter, to hear and flinch. "Do what again?" their mother, Autumn, asked, a shiny metallic needle and spool of string in her hand. Looking them over, their faces still frozen in excitement, taking in Jax's position next to the wheelchair and Buck, her gaze softened but her eyes narrowed. "Buck, I thought I've told you two not to do that. It's dangerous and I don't want you to hurt yourself, all right?"

Jax deflated, but Buck replied, "Don't worry, Mother, I'm paralyzed anyway so there's no risk."

Autumn only let out a deep sigh to that. "Jax, why don't you come inside? Buck has to go to work soon and I can tell you some stories."

"Ooh, yes! I love your stories! Have fun Buck!" He ran inside.

Autumn followed with a reluctant but understanding goodbye, leaving only Buck outside. He knew she always thought his strong work ethic was too hard on him. Ever since he was little, Autumn had told him to play more and work less, but the light-heartedness had never appealed to him, unlike how busy work was.

Wheeling his chair to the forestry area, Buck rolled up the hill he had only just came down with Jax, down the other side, and onto the wooden planks that signified the sidewalk, continuing his commute to work. Seven was more fortunate than most other districts, as lumber was an important industry, and he was thankful for that; in a poorer place like Twelve, he may have been shunted away and out of society after his legs were paralyzed.

Of course, the optimal situation would have been to go to the Capitol and get his legs fixed, but that was a far-away fantasy. Buck knew he was a hard worker, diligent and persistent, but why would they bother wasting their precious resources on a crippled district kid?

 _No time to dwell on fantasies and dreams,_ he thought. The important things were in the here and now, such as overall worker efficiency and success in the industry.

The strong smell of pine and dirty alerted him to his surroundings soon before he saw them. Everyday routine, going to work, helped too, of course. A familiar streak of bright red hair, long and hanging by a ponytail, caught his eye and he maneuvered to face it. "Hello, good morning!"

The owner of the ponytail turned around, revealing her face as Acacia's like he expected. She was sitting on a pine branch, basket in hand, being a picker of pinecones to harvest pine nuts in the long run. "Hey, Buck! How are you today? Ready for later?"

"Of course," he replied. Like most of the teenagers in District Seven, he treated the Reaping seriously, but like a legend. It was akin to the slim chances people pre-Panem had in winning "the lottery." They'd taught in class that the lottery was a corrupt thing, though, to which Buck agreed to, so perhaps he shouldn't have compared the Reaping to it...

 _Easily-earned money is nonexistent,_ thought Buck, simultaneously responding, "How about you, Acacia?"

"I'm good, thanks for asking." She jumped down from the 10-foot high branch, causing him to flinch a little in fear at first, then relax when she was all right. "A little scared for the Reaping, but you know the chances. Miniscule, for both of us." Acacia placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm done with this basket already and we're pretty much done with the harvesting of pinecones, so may I join you with the acorns? I just have to do something to keep myself occupied or else I'll worry too much, you know?"

Buck returned the touch, which strained his arm a bit, but he didn't mind. "Yeah, that's my thing, too. We've got to work to earn the good things in life, too."

"Just watch all the lazy, fat kids who have never had to work ever, get Reaped today," she joked. "It's natural selection of the weakest; they've got nothing to offer and no skills to help propel our district."

"Hey, let's not talk about that," Buck interposed.

She hesitated, realizing the full weight of her words. "Ah, sorry." An awkward few seconds later, Acacia started, "So how's school going for you? Favorite subject?"

"Fine. It's boring, though. I mean, there's not much use for it here in Seven; the only subject I even bother to pay attention in is Geometry; after all, angles and the like are important for carpentry."

Laughing and faking a sigh, Acacia replied, "Log-bucking. Of course, Buck. You know, I just want to settle down live the best life I can, make good food and sell it if I have extras. Live a nice life with someone I love."

"Same," Buck said. "I just want to hard and overcome whatever difficulties life throws my way. Live a well-earned life with effort and purpose with someone I love, too."

* * *

"I only want the best for my family. It's what they deserve."

* * *

 **Heather Rosa-Tran, 18**

 **District 7**

 _Chop!_ _Chop!_ The satisfying sound of logs hitting the sodden leaves and ground resonated throughout the forest, matching the other alike sounds. Heather moved over to the next tree, swinging the ax there. With each hit, she thought of her siblings, her husband, her family, and her precious child inside her. It was hard, providing for her siblings and a fetus with manual labor, but if she just sped through the work and fulfilled her daily quota...

Being the oldest out of six children meant working hard and working fast. The extra time she had could be spent getting her siblings out of trouble, but if she did all that, she'd have the entire rest of the day to herself, despite her plans to visit them today, anyway. It was habit. _Chop! Chop!_ Another tree fell down.

"Hey, Heather, how are you?" Timothy's voice came from her right.

She smiled at Timothy, eyes crinkling with admiration. "I'm great, Tim! Today's a wonderful day to do some work. Weather's great. You?"

He grinned back, giving her a small fist bump with their non-dominant hands. "Same, I'm doing fantastic. I was thinking that after we finished this last shift, we could go back and comfort your siblings a bit. They must be nervous today. What do you think?"

The unspoken and hinted-at circumstance haunted both of them: the Reaping. Her siblings, especially Rose, must be frightened. After all, it was her second Reaping, and the gossip and stories at school about people getting Reaped had to be flying around like crazy. She wouldn't believe them, of course, but the horror stories may have gotten to her.

"That sounds wonderful, Tim. Looking forward to it!" They filled the space between them with empty chatter, talking about their family, their plans for the future until the shift ended. At last, the pair stored their axes and headed back to the Rosa household, Heather both excited to see her siblings again and willing to take on the responsibility of talking and comforting them.

Tim knocked with his signature wry smile on his face, both of them listening for the soft patter of feet that would undeniably sound as the children came to the door.

A pair of soft brown eyes peeked out from the side of the door, and they all heard Iris's voice, loud and shrill. "Tim! Hi, Tim! Tim and Heather are here! Mom, Dad!"

"Iris, Darling. Why don't you let them in, please?" Her mother's quieter, calm tone came from behind the door. "And Iris, please keep your voice down, all right?" As the hinges creaked open and Heather and Tim stepped inside, she noticed the bags underneath her eyes.

Rather than call attention to them blatantly, Heather asked, voice careful, "Has everything been all right? I hope they," she gestured to the collection of young children with a slight smile on her face, "haven't been too wearing?"

"We've all been really good! But we miss having Tim and you around," Rose piped up before their mother could answer. "Actually, come to think of it, Zinnia has been rather difficult more recently. You know that really cute outfit I showed you before you left? I gave it to her. She wore it once, and then lost it!"

Heather ruffled Zinnia's hair as Tim talked to her parents and John. Offering an understanding smile in Rose's direction, she reasoned, "Well, Rose, I think with Tim and me back, I'm sure we can find it sometime soon." As Rose giggled a thank you, she turned to John, who looked entertained but uncomfortable between their parents and Tim's conversation.

"John!" They embraced each other. "How have you been?" His eyes relaxed with relief, no longer caught awkwardly between two parties. "I'm doing well, Heather. How well have you been settling in?"

"It's been difficult juggling my responsibilities as a wife, sister, and a mother-to-be," she confessed with an earnest shrug. "But I think I've been getting into the rhythm."

"That's good, Heather," said John. "Just keep learning, and I'm sure you'll get the hang of it. You're a great sister, and I don't doubt you'll channel your motherly personality into being a parent."

She hugged him, delighted at his words. "That means so much, John. Thank you."

"And if you ever need help with anything in the future, I can help. Or at least try to help, because I'm better at numbers than I am with little children." He laughed. "But I get along well enough with Rose, Zinnia, and Iris, of course. I've been helping Mother and Father with them like you did."

Heather turned to the three younger girls, engaged in a rather loud conversation, a teasing smile on her lips. "I'm sure you haven't been bad to John, Mother, and Father, haven't you, Rose, Zinnia, and Iris?"

Their facial expressions told her enough, and she took the three of them into a quieter section of the house, leaving John deep in conversation with Tim and Linden, another one of her brothers. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her parents standing by and looking on to her and her sisters. Kneeling down to their eye level, she said, "Okay, I understand you three are bored and have nothing to do, but we have to be considerate of Mom and Dad. They're under a lot of stress because they have to work and take care of you guys. So I think they would appreciate it if you could all eased the pressure off them a bit.

"I'll be away more often, but I'll still try to stop by and play with you. And in a few months, I'll give birth to a lovely baby and introduce them to you, all right?"

"All right," Rose answered, the other two girls nodding. A small frown creased her brows. "It's just that... the Reaping is also today. And I'm scared one of us will be Reaped."

A sigh of sympathy rushed through Heather, remembering her first and her second Reaping, where they had drawn the names out of a bowl with such suspense and randomness. It could have been anyone, and that was where the fear was rooted, and the rumors flying around at school did nothing to quell that apprehensiveness. "Don't worry, Rose. There are a lot of stories surrounding the Reaping you've heard, I bet? But most of them aren't real, and there are thousands of people eligible to be Reaped who have taken far more tesserae than any of us. It might be scary, but the odds of us getting Reaped are very, very small."

The unspoken words haunted her, despite her confident front. It was a small chance, but _what if_ one of them were Reaped? Especially poor Rose or John. They were too sweet to be in the Hunger Games, and she sobered just thinking about it.

But Rose smiled, fears alleviated, and murmured a quiet thanks as Heather got up and walked over to her parents, leaving Tim to play with her sisters.

"We're really proud of how you handled the situation," her mother, Tammy, said with a warm grin. "The girls, your siblings, and we all love having you around, and it's always wonderful when you visit." She paused, letting Heather soak in the praise. "But you should have stayed home and relaxed with Tim, Darling. There's no need to stress out."

Heather hugged her parents. "No, no, this isn't stressful. Staying home would have been more stressful because I wanted to make sure you all are all right and doing well. I've been worried sick."

Hugging her back, her parents replied, "You're too sweet. We love you so much, and we are so proud of the beautiful, strong, responsible woman you've become."

Those words struck a chord with her, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes. They fell for her siblings, for her resilient mother and father, for the uncertainty and chance, the tip of fate which the Reaping would provide if bad luck struck.

"Thank you, Mother and Father. I love you too, and I am so proud to be your daughter."

* * *

"There's nothing I despise more than false truths in this world. However inescapable, I do my best to restrain lies from spreading."

* * *

 **Ganges Trefoil, 29**

 **District 7 Mentor**

"Welcome to the District Seven Reaping!" It was Reagan Woods, the escort of Seven, infamous for his blunt and uncensored notes on tributes. Honestly, Ganges no longer knew why he was escorting for Seven but wasn't protesting. Reagan and he shared basically the same views, save for thoughts on profanity. "How are you, District Seven?" Reagan smiled, showing pearly white teeth, before continuing, "I'll begin by showing the video."

That gave Ganges time to ponder after shooting a brief smile at his best and only friend. What would his newest tribute be like this year? His previous three tributes had all been terrible. Physically strong, yes. Truthful and straight-forward, no. They were all weak in his eyes, gone over to the side of dishonesty. Of telling little white lies to appease him. At least he didn't have to mentor the females, who usually did that ten times more often than males, or so he had noticed.

A lifetime in a constant quest for knowledge and the pure, undiluted truth, brought out many sides of a man. Including ones that Panem, his country, would have rather ignored. At least he'd stayed off the radar—though Ganges was silently arrogant, constantly correcting others, he wasn't stupid enough to voice anti-Capitol opinions in front of Peacekeepers. Neither did he care for others' opinions about himself; the truth and honesty were better than anything else he could hope for—friendships, relations, love, hobbies.

Oh well. Previous tributes had gotten upset, too sensitive to handle his blunt criticism and correcting. Ganges had to admit a bit to himself that he wasn't the best at handling that, either, when addressed to him, but of all things, he didn't just break down and storm out of rooms. The video was ending now, and he barely restrained himself from bouncing on his seat, forced himself to stay put and wait for the tribute called.

Hopefully, this year would be less disastrous than the previous ones he was forced to mentor.

"Beginning with the males, our tribute shall be... Buck—" The escort paused, hesitating. "I can't pronounce this. So if your first name is Buck and your surname is spelled N-i-e-l-s-s-e-n, come up to the stage, please."

Ah, it was typical Reagan. Perhaps this was a sign. A good one, he hoped. But from the looks of the tribute Reaped, he no longer cut himself that slack.

 _Wheelchair? Seriously?_

That was his first thought. This kid was in a wheelchair, of all things. He—Buck—rolled it, a wooden rickety thing, to the front of the stage deftly, taking his spot without uttering a single word, not that Reagan offered him the microphone anyway. Silently, Ganges pondered what would happen if he demanded Reagan to redraw a name, but the inner moral man inside of him pushed to give Buck a chance. One chance, perhaps he was a straight-forward, hard-working, and honest guy.

The escort continued, "And now, we shall move on to the female bowl. Our female tribute for this year is... Heather Rosa-Tran!"

"No, Heather!" a pained cry came from the 18-year-old boys' section as another 18-year-old female pursed her lips and stormed up the stage, each movement deliberate and furious despite her large belly. _She must be pregnant_ _, and he must be her husband._ More shouts and sounds of sobbing came from the 13-year-olds' section, the 17-year-olds' section, and the 15-year-olds' section. _She must either have a lot of siblings or close friends from different age groups._

He felt a brief pang of pity for both of the Reaped tributes, but it failed to last. He had overcome this as well, and pity had no place in the Games. They had to be strong no matter what; pity would only weaken them. And weaknesses were not a good thing in the Hunger Games.

* * *

 **A/N: Ayy, Tigress is back. I struggled with this chapter but managed to write through it. I hope I did these two wonderful characters justice.**

 **On another note, I've only gotten check-ins from SEVEN people. Check-ins tell me you're reading. Some of you have reviewed but haven't checked in, so I'd suggest going back to Chapter 11 for the check-in information. Just shoot me a quick PM, y'know?**

 **QOTC: What color is Acacia's hair?**

 **Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I'm glad to be getting back into the writing rhythm.**

 **Veni, vidi, vici,**

 **Tigress**


End file.
